The feeling of blinking and opening his eyes to an entirely new place was not new to number Five Zero Seven. Just a second ago, he had been standing in a dark cell, eating celebratory pumpkin pie. It was Halloween, and while Foundation workers longed for the feeling of terror, 507 abhorred it. It was too familiar.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had been dreading a Halloween trip, still trying to forget the one from last year. But he was not in a ghost town, or a dank graveyard. He was in the middle of what appeared to be an English mansion, with a large coat of arms and an even larger picture of Queen Victoria as the centerpieces of the room on the back wall. He felt a peculiar sense of deja vu, and 507 suddenly felt a lump in his throat. It was too familiar.
"You're back." 507 whipped his head around in terror, seeing exactly what he hoped he wouldn't. An older man, Caucasian, with deep blue eyes. But 507 knew he wasn't any of that. The man spoke up again. "Did you enjoy your, uh, trials?"
"I wouldn't call them trials. More of me thrashing around universes and other planes like a damn rag doll."
343 frowned. "Rag doll seems a bit harsh. It's not like I wanted anything that way."
507 sighed audibly. "How could you do this, huh? To me?"
"Not just you. Did you notice where is everyone else now?" 343 asked rhetorically, smiling. "Trapped. By their power, like you, or unconscious, or stuck within their own mind or body. Or maybe in the doorway."
"But you haven't. I've been just about everywhere, all thanks to you. I know for the most part who the players are and where they stand. And neither of us stand nearly as high as we'd like to think."
"Oh, come on. It can't have been that bad. Maybe it was just their way of saying hello?"
507 grimaced. He had been right about Halloween being terrifying.
"Well, you've entered my home without permission and insulted me. Anything you want to do here before you inevitably hop back to your cell?" 343 stood, staring blankly at 507.
There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, the younger of the two spoke up.
"Yeah, okay. Trick or treat?" he asked.
The older man laughed. "Here's some chocolate." A bar of Hershey's appeared in his hand, which was promptly thrust forward. 507 accepted, and walked to the wall to sit down. "I'm being nice and cordial, don't you think? Not like I used to be. We're not enemies, you can be afforded a little respect."
"Enemies? Do you know what I've gone through? You don't know half the shit I've seen and learned. And brought with me." He pulled out a small chunk of yellow metal. "Remember, asshole, all he needs is one hand to strangle you with."
The older man moved closer to 507, eying the object. "Hand?" he asked.
"Not as broken as you think."
A blink later, he was gone. In a split second, the old man's face changed from mild curiosity to anger and confusion. This was not familiar.

"Do you think he knows?"
"About what?"
"The metal."
"Doubt it."

Researcher Goldsheiner had far too much paperwork to relax. The stack of files on his desk seemed to be taunting him, to the point that he could not focus on it without feeling angry. He had planned to go on vacation with his family in the near future, contingent on him having time to plan. But work was getting in the way, and he was getting more stressed by the minute. He kept zoning in and out, all the while semi-focused on the stack of paper neatly on his desk. It was too big to do anything about.
Pushing unproductive thoughts aside, he unenthusiastically reached for the file on the top. All he had to do was read the request and either accept it or deny it, meaning that he could skim through and avoid doing any actual work. He opened the manilla envelope and read the memo inside. Sitting back in his chair, he glanced over to the potted plant in the corner of his office. Wasn't maintenance supposed to do something about that thing? He was certainly not strong enough to move the thing himself. He looked it at, admiring how the leaves could look artificial even while being wholly natural. With a jolt, he moved his attention to the request, deciding to get it out of the way. After all, it wasn't like someone like him could do anything about the plant. It was too big to do anything about.

This came to me in a dream. I had meditated for an hour or so before I went to bed, hoping to astrally project myself. It was around 10:40 when I went fell asleep. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in Central Park, throwing pieces of panini to the pigeons squabbling on the ground. I remember feeling a slight pity for them, having to take what I give and getting only the scraps of my sandwich. I turned to my side, and there was a man sitting there. I don't remember much, except that he had a trench coat and fedora on. He asked me if I liked what I was eating.
I replied affirmatively, and he laughed. I don't quite remember what he said, but I think it was something about irony.

Goldsheiner yawned. He skipped to the second-to-last paragraph.

But it couldn't really be just that, could it? An inanimate object? Or an entity, trying to free itself from an inanimate object, to be contained in an inanimate object? Or maybe just an entity, briefly stuck inside a small universe before bursting into ours. I can't be sure about what the man said; after all, it was in a dream, and we know very little about SCP-882.
A colleague of mine, who would prefer to remain nameless, told me that my experience was similar to an existing SCP entity, numbered 990. For this reason, I am officially submitting a transcript of my dream to Site Director Kondraki. I leave it up to the higher-ups to decide how to act, if any action is deemed necessary to undertake.
-Researcher Greens, Personnel Code #CN8978, Site 19

Too sleepy to fully understand what he had just read, Goldsheiner reached for his stamp and lethargically smacked the page with it. He grabbed a handful from the bag of candy corn the staff had put in all the offices and began to munch. There was no reason not to accept this request, after all, he rationalized. 990 was a Keter, if he remembered correctly. And better for it to be on the site director's plate than on his. Assuming the memo was accurate, the implications were out of his league anyway. It was too big to do anything about.

507 was sitting in his containment unit, clutching a small piece of metal. He had been sitting there for sixty four seconds, which he knew because they were possibly the longest sixty four seconds of his life. A doctor in a white lab coat entered with a clipboard, scribbling notes down.
"Five Oh Seven, you've been gone for almost nine hours. We can schedule an interview later to document your latest shift. Is there anything you'd like?"
"No, I'm okay. Thanks. How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Hm?"
"In Site 19, I mean."
"Since the sun on the Horizon touched down," the doctor replied.
507 let out a much-needed sigh of relief. "Take this." he said, tossing the piece of metal to the doctor.
"Are we clear?"
"Not entirely. I couldn't help it. He saw it. Even a martyr wants to taste the sweetness in the fruit of revenge."
"I bet Adam thought that too." The two stood in silence, and the doctor turned to leave the unit. On his way out, the doctor turned back to the man sitting on the cot. "Does he know?"
"About what?"
"The metal."
"Doubt it."
The doctor left the room, with the chunk of metal in his pocket. Soon, it would be mailed to a friend in a distant Foundation facility. Then, it was out of his hands, and he would just have to wait for his reward. He walked through the halls of Site 19, admiring the tranquility. Even on Halloween night, when the kids were looking for sweets and the adults were partying, the Site 19 seemed like machine. Finely-oiled parts were working nonstop, accomplishing what would be an insurmountable task by separate parts, no matter how powerful.

"There's not much to say."
"Where is it?"
"I don't have it."
"Bullshit."

How many had he done. Twelve? Thirteen? Out of how many? Goldsheiner didn't want to think about it. He was lucky he was being this productive in fact. Many days, he'd read through that many requests in total. It was only half past 2:00, but the stack of work on his desk didn't seem any shorter. He groaned, imagining the work ahead of him, hoping that he had an assistant. Or four. The pang of reality hurt him when it hit him, looking at the pile. Even with a lot of people, they wouldn't be able to do much.

Note: Due to the attached interview, I'm formally requesting for SCP-882 to be sealed away and no longer be studied.
Dr. Dunner: State your name for the record, please.
D-43267: Franklin King Jackson.
Dr. Dunner: And do you know why you're here?
D-43267: I believe in the truth of the Broken God, whom you imprison.
Dr. Dunner: Is that it?
D-43267: You imprison more than just His heart: His mind, His flesh, more.
Dr. Dunner: Flesh? Could you describe it?
D-43267: Don't play dumb with me. We know.

Goldsheiner yawned, flipping through the next two pages of the interview until he landed just before the end. He glanced out the open door in his office to see a witch and a ghost discussing containment procedures. With much effort, he got up to close the door. Halloween was boring, not scary. Nothing chilling ever happened on October 31st, perhaps excepting the weather. Goldsheiner sat back down and reopened the file.

D-43267: The rest is just to expand its influence.
Dr. Dunner: So this metal that you describe is anomalous in and of itself, and potentially more powerful than SCP-882?
D-43267: However you label the Broken God, it will not matter, for He will soon be whole. And He will rise up and crush the heathens, and reward the faithful. They will be ground up and destroyed by His might, and their bodies will be strewn all through the Earth.
Dr. Dunner: I think we're done here.

Goldsheiner, having read very little and having cared even less, promptly denied the request. In his mind, he thought, there was nothing in that interview that could warrant ending the study of an SCP object. The Church was far too non-cohesive to pose a real threat. Even with a lot of people, they wouldn't be able to do much.

The feeling of blinking and opening his eyes to an entirely new place was not new to 507. The feeling of blinking and opening his eyes to his worst enemy standing above him, however, was.
"What was that piece of metal you had?"
"Hm?"
343 grabbed 507 by the throat, and the unit they were in began to warp violently. He was no longer in a metal room, but a red cone that was centered on the old man clutching his neck. 507 tried to fight it, but his power was constrained. All he could do was throw himself into a new universe, but 343 kept dragging him back. The room was beginning to mesh from everywhere he tried to jump to, and it was soon no longer recognizable.
"Where is it."
He felt himself smash into the wall behind him. The room had grown considerably, and was now easily over a hundred feet long and half that in width.
"Where's what?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
There was rubble all around him, Greek and Roman pillars being smashed as his body soared through them. He was blacking out in pain, but his eyes were being forced open by unseen hands. He couldn't cry, and watched his body go limp and reanimate and go limp again.
"WHAT IS IT?!" roared the old man, now five times his normal size in the massive conglomeration of jungle, ancient civilization, and Escher-esque mansion that 507's containment unit had become. 507 stayed silent.
343 drew a deep breath, and stood over 507's crushed body. "If you don't tell me, I won't bother punishing you. I'll just kill you."
"There's not much to say," he managed to say.
343 smiled. He picked up 507's body. "Where is it?"
"I don't have it."
"Bullshit."
"I don't."
343 threw him down. In his last seconds, 507 saw himself spread around the room. He heard 343 scream in anger, just before his vision went black.
"At least I didn't have to die in some far-gone universe or a cold cell. I got to die everywhere," his shattered mind thought, right before his shattered body gave in.
343 was panting hard. It wasn't as much the horrible act he'd just done, though he was still sorting through what had just happened in his head. He frantically ran through Site 19, looking for clues about whatever the metal chunk that 507 had given his life for was. The old man wasn't able to keep his mind focused though, because he was terrified.

"Is he really dead?"
"That's what they told me. Didn't really say much."
"That's a pretty huge deal."
"You'd be surprised."

Researcher Goldsheiner was extremely tired. After mountains of paperwork, all he could hope to do was sleep in his own bed for once rather than the leather chair in his office. He dragged himself up, and walked through the middle of a party in the break room. Orange and black streamers were covering the ceiling, with costumed staff members drinking and enjoying themselves.
"It's 11:32! Jesus, I remember when I was young," he muttered. He waded his way through candy and decorations, spiderwebs and six foot witch statues. The noise and light were hurting his ears. With a groan, he remembered that his kids would be out for the whole night.
Halloween had never been too exciting for Goldsheiner. It was so artificial that it made him sick. Faux scares and consumerism pretty much summed the whole holiday up in his mind. It was the same thing, year after year. Nothing ever changed. It was always a copy of the previous year, and the year before that, and the year before that. He grabbed his jacket and exited the main building. Goldsheiner grumbled, seeing his breath float up in the cold air, thinking about how much he loathed Halloween. It was too familiar, but it was too big to do anything about. Even with a lot of people, he wouldn't be able to do much.

A small yellow chunk of metal was thrown into the forge, being consumed by the monstrous Heart of the Broken God. The martyred fool had been wrong about the size of the chunk. There was more than enough for 882 to change it into a hand; in fact, an entire man was created. Feeling his regained power rushing through his limbs, he bent the metal mass and slowly levitated out of it. The Heart was getting bigger all the while, and all non-believers guarding Him had already been slaughtered. There was more work to do, but first, he had a demon to smite.


The sun was just beginning to set as I paddled into the Okefenokee swamp along with my friends, Hank and Lucia. We weren't strangers to kayaking in the swamp; we had all done it since we were kids. Even at night, we weren't afraid to go in with the alligators and the birds and the other wildlife. This trip in particular, however, was designed to be scary. What a better time to tell ghost stories than while camping in the swamp on Halloween? We'd never spent Halloween in the wilderness before, and we figured it would be better than going to another costume party. I love being able to get away from my job at the Foundation every once in a while. The cold, sterile halls of Site 327 have no soul, none of the romantic power that nature does. As much as I love science, I need that kind of spiritual peace that nature imparts.
Things started to get dark around 6.
"Lights on everyone," said Lucia, as if we were kids that needed her to order us around. Hank looked at her and pouted.
"But I don't wanna!" he whined.
"Come on Hank," I said, "we better do what she says, or she'll spank us."
The look on her face was enough to send us both into a fit of laughter.
"Shut up Joe," she said. "I don't know which one of you is worse."
We kept mostly silent after that, paddling our way to our campsite. We'd been there many times before, an island of solid earth in a sea of stagnant water, peat, and trees. Spanish moss waved lazily in the wind as true darkness finally came, obscuring the already alien shapes of the Okefenokee. Here was true wilderness. No humans came here frequently, and when they did they never stayed long. The trees grew large and twisted, silent surveyors of the affairs of fish and fowl, alligators and snakes. We tied up the kayaks, set up our tents quickly, stowed our gear, and built a fire. As we cooked marshmallows and hotdogs, now came the reason we had come out here in the first place, our first-ever Halloween swamp ghost story contest. Hank took the first turn.

A few miles south of Folkston, back in the 1800s, there used to be a place called Trader's Hill. It was a traders' town, of course, built near the water. There's an enormous old oak tree there, still around today. People called it the Hangman's Oak, for reasons I'm sure you can imagine. So one day, this Indian named Suanee came to town. He got accused to stealing some goods from a trader, and he ended up being sentenced to death. So they brought him up to the Hangman's Oak, and they were tying the rope around his neck when he said "May the curse of my father's spirit and my own be upon you, for as long as there is a Trader's Hill!" No one payed him any mind, and they hanged him dead.
About a month later, the people of Trader Hill were having a dance to celebrate the harvest, when they saw something bright in the distance. They all looked toward it and saw Hangman's Tree, glowing bright like it was on fire, and they could hear wailing and moaning like a thousand people being tortured! The next morning the first group of people packed up and left Trader's Hill. Eventually, the whole place was deserted. They say that sometimes, at night in the fall, you can still hear the wailing of Suanee and his father.

"Hank, I'm sorry but that story was just awful," I said, "It wasn't scary, and I'm pretty sure I've heard it before somewhere."
"What!? That story scared the shit out of me when I was a kid!"
"Nope. Wasn't scary."
"I agree. Boooring." said Lucia.
Hank stared at us both, flabbergasted. Before he could say anything, I saw it. There was a light in the swamp, like an orange flame. It was far off, and obscured by the fog, but I could see that it was bobbing along like someone carrying a lantern. Who would be out in the swamp at night? And how do you just causally walk through the swamp?
"Hey guys, do you see that?" I asked.
"See what?"
Almost as soon as they turned, the light disappeared.
"What was that?" said Hank.
"I don't know. Maybe it was just someone setting up their own campsite?" suggested Lucia.
"I guess…" I said. I was used to seeing weird things. Something about this didn't seem right. Still, it's my weekend off.
"Whatever, let's just keep going. I believe it's my turn," I said as I stood up.

One day, a man named Henry Ferguson was driving home from work. It was another busy day in Chicago, with lots of traffic on the highway as people made their way home. Henry was tired, he had been working late the past couple of nights. He couldn't wait to get home and relax. Suddenly, his phone rang. He answered it.
"Good afternoon Mr. Ferguson. I have your son here at gunpoint. You must make a choice now."
"What? Who is this?"
"That's not important. I can see you from a screen right now. Speed up, and turn into oncoming traffic. If you don't do it soon, I will kill your son."
"Dad! Please, don't do it!"
"George? Is that you?!"
"Yes Dad, it's me, don't worry about me I'll be fine!"
"Shut up! Mr. Ferguson, you're running out of time."
Henry heard a gun click. His heart was beating out of his chest. He didn't know what to do.
"George…..I love you."
He stomped on the accelerator and turned sharply to the left.
Mr. Henry Ferguson didn't survive the crash. When the police asked for a recording of the last phone call he had made before committing suicide, they got it. To this day, no one knows who actually made the call, where it came from, or how George's voice was on it when he had never been kidnapped or threatened with a gun at all….

I stood silent for a few moments while I let the last part set in. Hank and Lucia looked a little spooked now. I'm sure the Foundation wouldn't mind that I had made up a ghost story using an SCP for inspiration, but then they probably would never know.
"Dude, that's fucking creepy." said Hank.
"That was one of the better ones I've heard recently," agreed Lucia. "However, I think I've got both of you beat. Have a seat and listen to a true master of the art."

Long ago in England, there lived a man named Jack. Jack was a thief and a scoundrel, but a clever one. One day, for all his cleverness and carefulness, he got caught stealing a gold coin from a farmer. Half the village was chasing him with murder on their minds, for that coin was all they had. Jack jumped into some bushes on the side of the road and let the villagers pass by, then dusted himself off and started walking the other way. He hadn't gone more than a few steps when a dark figure stepped onto the path before him, appearing like a wraith from the fog.
"Jack," the figure said, "I have come for thee. You hath lived a wicked life, and it is my duty as Satan, Lord of the Hell to take your soul to eternal damnation. Your time hath come, the villagers shall return and kill you soon."
Jack, being the clever man he was, thought this over and had an idea. "Devil," he said, "would you not prefer to have many souls over one?"
"Are you proposing a deal, Jack?" the Devil said.
"A small one, Devil. It would benefit you much more than me. It is simple, you shall see."
"Tell me more, but be sharp, for your time runs short."
"Well first, Devil, I but throw away this gold coin I stole, into the forest where the peasants will never find it. Then you, Devil, turn thineself into the same gold coin. You hop into my purse, and when the peasants find me I give you to them. They don't kill me, but you disappear from their pockets later, and soon enough they'll all kill eachother arguing over who stole it."
The Devil agreed, and did as Jack said. But when he turned into a coin and hopped in Jack's purse, he found in there a crucifix. At the sight of it, the Devil's power was diminished, and he could not move from Jack's purse.
"A curse on you, Jack! You damnable wretch!"
"I will let you go if you do as I say."
"Blasted fate! I submit. What do you wish?"
"I wish that you promise you will never drag me to Hell, never touch my soul, not ever."
The Devil was reluctant, but as the peasants drew near, he finally gave in to Jack's demand. Jack threw him from his purse, and the Devil fled into the dark forests.
Finally, the farmers had Jack where they wanted him. They snatched him and bound him, and searched him for their gold. But they did not find it, for Jack had thrown it into the woods. Instead, they took his head.
Jack was now in a predicament, for it seemed that Heaven would not take him, on account of his wicked nature, but neither would Hell, for the Devil had made his promise. Trapped between worlds, Jack begged of the Devil for one thing. A light for him to see by as he wandered the Earth. Satan took pity on Jack, and gave him an ember from the fires of Hell itself. Jack took it, and placed it in a carved pumpkin that he now wears in place of the head he lost. Since, he became known as Jack 'o' The Lantern.

I yawned. I saw worse things on an average Tuesday.
"Eh," said Hank, "it was interesting, but not really scary. Kind of cheesy too. Pumpkin heads are so overdone."
"What are you smoking? A guy with a pumpkin for a head with fire from Hell itself wandering the Earth for all eternity doesn't scare you?"
"No."
"You're too jaded."
A voice came from just outside the light of the fire. "Oh, it's a good story. You just got a few of the details wrong."
We all turned, startled, toward the voice as a man stepped into the light of our fire. He was old, his skin wrinkled with age. Half his hair had fallen out, the rest was grey as brushed steel. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, obscuring their color. He wore swamper's clothes, overalls and boots, but he seemed dirtier than most swampers I had seen.
"Who are you?" I asked him.
"They call me Will." He turned toward Lucia. "If you had told that story right, it would have been much scarier."
"You were spying on us?"
"Only for as long as her story lasted. I was just on my way in my canoe when I heard your voices."
Lucia stood up. "Well if you know that story so well, what did I get wrong?"
"Well, for one thing," said Will, "Jack never lost his head. The villagers just hanged him. He pretended to be dead and then just got up and left as soon as they turned around."
"For another, Jack didn't use a pumpkin to hold his Hellfire. There weren't any pumpkins in Medieval Europe, they're an American vegetable. He used a carved turnip."
As he spoke, I saw the light again. There it was, closer this time, slowly bobbing left and right, left and right. There was another, and another, another…
"You also forgot the best part. Jack figured out that though his Hellfire would never go out, on some days it was stronger. Particularly one day. It's a day of significance, ancient and cursed. They call that day All Hallow's Eve, or more recently, Halloween." The lights where closer now, more coming into view every second. I realized that Lucia, Hank and I had huddled together close, while Will was standing totally still, a knowing smile on his face. He casually rolled his head, revealing a white, puckered scar going all around his neck.
"Jack eventually figured out that on Halloween, his Hellfire was strong enough that he could use it to take people's souls for himself. All he had to do was use it to burn off someone's head. The Hellfire would spread to their necks, and burn on forever, trapping their souls and bending them to Jack's will."
The lights were very close now, so close I could make out more details. They were faces. Carved faces. Jack-o-lanterns. One came into the light of the fire. A dark figure, wrapped in rotting cloth. It seemed taller than a person should be. On it's head, it wore a jack-o-lantern like a helmet. But that couldn't be right, there'd be no room for the head and the candle…
"I really like the way pumpkins look. Much nicer than turnips. Roomier too."
One of the figures stepped closer. I looked into the pumpkin, searching for a face. All I saw was a stump of a neck, a small flame pouring out from the throat. The smell of burnt meat filled my nose.
"Oh, I almost forgot! in some versions of the story, they call him Will."
I can still hear his laughter echoing in my ears. I'll never be able to forget that cackle of his, so deep it sounds more like he's choking. No matter how long I walk the swamps, day or night, rain or shine, I can never seem to get it out of my head.


I love Halloween. It's my favorite time of year, one of the few days I can just go out and mingle with the normal people for an entire night without anyone being the wiser. The pain's not so bad when I can change so often, it's dark with plenty of places to hide and change in secret, and the candy makes up for it.
There's an astronaut over there. I think I'll be an astronaut too now.
It's so easy, not at all like having to make up a shape and hold on to it, keeping it in my head and on my body until it hurts too much to bear. There's so many other people in costumes, I can just copy one of them and then I only need to keep the picture outside from changing.
That little boy is a pirate. I like pirates, I'm going to be a pirate.
Oh, and the candy. I do so love candy, but the rest of the year, it's so hard to get. You need money to buy candy, and even if I could get money, I can't keep it, I always drop it when I change. So I have to steal it, and that's even harder, because even if I get some, I have to drop it too when I change to get away.
A ballerina? That could make a nice shape to be, I'll try that.
Tonight, you don't have to buy or steal candy, they just give it away. They don't like to give you candy more than once, but that's not a problem for me, not if I see someone I want to be and get to a house before they do. I can clean out a house in minutes if I'm lucky, and have a whole bag of candy to go hide somewhere and eat it all up without any shape at all.
Policemen are scary. I don't like them, they like to chase me and shoot at me. But my head hurts, so I'll be a policeman now.
I took a chance once, and went up to a house without a shape. I don't know why I did it, maybe I'd eaten too much candy and gotten silly on the sugar. It never goes right most days, people always scream and run when they see me without a shape, or they try to hurt me and I have to run. But on Halloween, I'm a ghost, or Rorschach (who's Rorschach?), or a swamp monster, or a Shoggoth (don't know what that is either). They aren't scared, they tell me what a great costume I have and give me extra candy.
Should I be a vampire? Or a werewolf? Or a mummy? I see all of them, and I can't decide.
But I can't be myself very often, because I know Mr. Redd is after me. He's always been chasing me, but he can't ever find me. I know how much it makes him angry, though - every since that one night, he knows I spend all of Halloween out and vulnerable, but I wear so many different shapes he never knows what I am and I'm always picking a new one. He get so angry, and it's funny.
Ooh, there's a spy. I see them a lot, even when it's not Halloween. They don't look like spies, they look like normal people, but no one's better than me at seeing someone whose outside is changed. I know they're all friends, because inside they all look similar, and I can see that too. I'll be a spy, and go talk to him. Maybe I can get him to think I'm a spy like he is too. Maybe he'll give me candy.


Lord Hubris sits opposite Lord Wisdom. He is of the type Kahtar, and his symbol is the crown. To his right is the unknowable, which is invisible and colorless to only him, as he refuses to look upon it. To his left is the courageous, which is always a thorn in his side, as he refuses to concern himself with it. Betwixt he and the wise are the needy and unworthy, and he spits upon them with his belly's acid, because he believes he is above them.
The Daevites tell us that he will never die, for their book's end does not include him. Believe or disbelieve them as you wish.
Lord Hubris is of great cunning, it is said that with enough time he could always sway the council of equity into his favour. His strength is like that of a hundred men, but he never need exercise it, for his voice is his greatest weapon. He appeals to the hearts of man, so that in the depth of battle they will switch to his side. The face of Lord Hubris is unassailable, for to look into his eyes and hear his voice sways his enemy's allegiance.
Lord Hubris is deceptive and manipulative, and only Lord Wisdom is perfectly immune to his tricks. Despite that he is always able to be on the side of the betrayer, and that he is always able to persuade the doubts of the knowledgeable, he is unable to change the opinion of the wise.
Lord Hubris is of great endurance, it is said that if he can be cut in twain, his headless half will come alive to struggle with him. When in combat, even as his mortal foes strike blades into his flesh, he shrugs them off and speaks to them. Even when there are those who are particularly stubborn, the swathes of his claws will steal their fates away from them. Lord Hubris boasts that of all Espy that are able, none can beat him in battle, as he will outlast them always.
His opposition to the wise is unending and unyielding, for he believes the Daeva that he will live forever. He believes he can sully Lord Wisdom's reputation such that the other ten members of the council turn against Lord Wisdom, and grant Lord Hubris his victory.
Starel laments.
Lord Hubris has the face of a ghost, but made with stone. It is like the whiteness of salt, but as hard as rock. He does not speak from his mouth, for his words pierce into the minds of those he is speaking to. It is said that the only times Lord Hubris changes his expression are in the memories of those who have spoken to him.
The neck of Lord Hubris is long and sinewy, so that his face may always look into the face of that which he is speaking to. Lord Hubris sheds blasphemies from his skin like sweat, and so to keep his face far from his body muffles the whispers of disgust. His talons are innumerable and smeared with the flesh of those who did not follow him, as he is a wrathful lord. His spit is black blood, and those who touch it are burned by it, and when enraged the drool of Lord Hubris is said to come alive, and form words in the drops it leaves on the ground.
Our Elders Twilight have told us that Lord Hubris has existed always, but has not always been as he is today. In a time long before ours he was instead two things, but have since become one. A visage made of poor-slain, worn by the ancient Tarask.


"How long has he been out there?" asked the Site Director as he strolled down the corridor leading to the entry hub.
"Around three hours, sir," replied his assistant, nervously shuffling her papers. "We've contemplated shooting him, but decided that if he came all the way to Site 19's gate to just stand out there yelling, he can't be too much of a threat."
The Site Director nodded slowly. He had dealt with attempted break-ins before, but some man ranting his head off at the Site gate was something new entirely. With any luck, they could wipe his memory and send him on his way inside of ten minutes, and get back to eating lunch. If not, he'd just order the stupid bastard shot in the face and be done with it. Either way, the problem would be solved.
The pair arrived at the titanic metal wall that served as the Site's blast door. Anyone trying to break in would be stopped dead in their tracks, even if they could get past the snipers and electrical fencing. Beyond it, a mere two meters away, stood some raving lunatic. "Just a moment sir," grunted the on-duty guard, punching in the passcode to open the blast door. As the monstrous groaning sound of sliding metal emitted from the blast door before them, a similar sound could be heard from behind. No madman, no matter how harmless, was worth risking a containment breach over.
A sliver of light fell over the Site Director and his assistant as the blast door picked up speed, opening faster and faster. The shadows of Site 19's low outer walls spilled across the dusty landscape. In the distance, one could see the small electric fences and the vast desert beyond. The Site Director had seen all of this before, however. What concerned him the most was the hunched-over man who rapidly advanced on the pair.
"Do you have any fucking idea how long I was standing out there, man?" he blurted, waving his arms frantically. "I mean, it's the middle of goddamn summer out there! I spent something like eight hundred dollars to get out here, in the middle of goddamn July, and you guys just leave me standing in the middle of the desert at noon? Shit, man!"
The Site Director looked over the haggard man. He had a long, scraggly beard that reached down to his stomach, and dark brown hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in weeks. His eyes flitted wildly back and forth, looking over the Site Director and the armed guards standing at the ready. His apparel was little more than a sweaty white t-shirt and torn jeans, his feet completely unshod. Worst of all, some exceptionally foul odor was wafting from his person, which the Site Director could only pin down as rotten corn.
"What…" he began, choking slightly on the man's smell, "What do you want?"
"Look, man, we tried to contact you through the mail, but we never received a message back, so they sent me out here. Fucking inconvenient if you ask me, but—"
"We burn all unsourced letters and delete suspicious e-mails," the Director said, quickly growing impatient with the man. "What exactly are you here for?"
"I'm here to declare war on you lot, man!" the foul-smelling individual shouted, jumping up and down while making slight jabs with his fists. "We heard about this one group of dudes, with a name similar to yours, who were kinda ticked at you getting in their way, you know? So the guys and me got together and thought up, 'Hey, our name is similar too, and we think that you guys have been crapping on our goals too, so we're gonna go to war with them!" To apparently add effect, the man kicked his legs about and made several high-pitched screeches.
"I see…" the Site Director said, rubbing his chin and hoping the glare on his glasses would hide his rolling eyes. "And how have we been wronging you?"
The unwashed man fell still and silent. "Um… we haven't really figured that part out yet. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, you know? We got as far as the 'similar names' thing, and went off on the 'Fuck these guys!' crusade." His eyes lit up and he began bouncing up and down again. "But we'll figure it out! You guys have to have been suppressing us somehow! So we're here to declare war against the SCP Foundation!"
The Site Director was doing all he could to keep from burying his face in his hands. "Just what is the name of your organization?"
"People Shitting Chipperly!"
Clearly, the battle to keep face and hands separate was a futile one.
The Site Director's body shook violently as he took in a few deep, ragged breaths. His assistant and the lunatic both stared at him, wondering what was wrong. At length, he removed his hands, took one last breath, straightened his tie, and spoke.
"No. No. No. I'm not accepting it, I am bloody well not accepting this. SPC, I get, I get how people can misspell it as that, and I get how you can go all, 'Oh, it's punching sharks, haha!' But no. I'm not doing it. I'm not going to have anything to do with the PSC organization."
"Do you have any idea," he said, trying to keep himself from shouting, "any idea at all, just how much trouble the Shark Punching Center has caused us? We've plugged way too many resources into just making them go away, and lost something like six or seven versions of Bright to brain aneurysms in the last week alone. It's too much trouble to actually deal with nutters like you."
"So go away," he stated flatly. "I'm not going to have you locked up, or mind-wiped, or even just straight up killed. It's too much trouble for a problem we shouldn't even have to be dealing with. Just go home, get on with your healthy shitting, or whatever it is you do, and never show your stinking face around here again. Do I make myself clear?"
"But—"
"Before I change my mind," the Site Director growled.
The filthy madman blinked once, then turned and fled into the desert, hopefully to never be seen again. Waving his hand, the Site Director instructed the guard to close the blast door. "Come on, Lucy," he sighed, "let's get back to the cafeteria."
At that moment, another individual came running up to the entrance, looking equally as insane and ragged as the one who had just left. "Now wait just a minute," he shouted, "I've spent two weeks looking for you, and the People's Coconut Society will not be—!"
"Fuck off," the Site Director spat, and the blast door clanged shut in the man's face.


It was Halloween night at Site 19
A more average night there could not have been
Inside the researchers were hard at work
Studying skips and their interesting quirks
When all of a sudden, out of the blue
The intercoms screamed "It's 682!"
"He's escaped his cell, he's running amok!
We've sent out the guards, and with any luck
They'll find him with almost no damage done
Until then, however, everyone run!"
The sudden announcement caused quite a riot
Afraid they would be the lizards diet
Personnel all ran through the halls quite fast
Hoping that this night would not be their last
Just then the man on the intercom cried,
"173 is loose, everyone hide!"
"We're working hard to find both of these beasts
So there will be no one marked as deceased!
Remember: don't blink, remember to stare
Or else you won't have time for a prayer!"
Now the whole site was scared as can be
No one survives against 173!
To defend themselves, they all grabbed their guns
So they might have a chance to see the sun
Once again the intercoms spoke with fear
"A mass SCP breach has taken place here!
Not just the lizard or the statue that kills
The Old Man is out and spreading his ills!
And so is Able, and he's rather pissed
About all the action that he may have missed!"
"035 is free, it's found a new host
And I'm also free, and making some toast
The clown has escaped from his cell and TV
And so have the 008 infectees!
This is by far the worst breach ever seen!
Oh, and by the way…Happy Halloween!"
"Yes, everything was completely untrue,
It was intended to scare all of you.
This great night is all about treats and tricks
So I thought I'd spook you all for kicks!"
Site Director's Note: It pains me to say
We were just tricked in a cruel sort of way
Somehow a researcher thought it'd be great
To frighten us all to a panicked state
But I'm not upset, because as it were
Now the fool's working with all things Keter!


"Daddy, why are you dressed up like a dolphin?"
Mitchell laughed as he picked up his daughter.
"I'm not a dolphin, you goof!" he said. "I'm a shark!"
The little girl in his hands giggled and bared her teeth at him, growling and playfully flailing her arms around.
"Raaawr, raaawr, I'mma shark princess daddy!" she yelled gleefully. "Can I be a shark princess?"
He chuckled. "But you're such a pretty princess already! Why would you ever want to be a shark?"
Samantha pondered this for a moment, putting a hand under her chin as she had often seen her father do when he had to think hard about something.
"Can I be a shark princess later?" she asked.
"Sure honey, but tonight, you're just a regular princess with a shark daddy who's taking her trick-or-treating." Mitch said as he set his daughter down, brushing down her tutu.
She cheered at this and snatched her mini-cauldron from off of the couch. Sam excitedly bounced towards the door, her gray-clad father tailing close behind.
It was a cool evening in the town of Mollierville. The wind gently pushed brown and orange leaves across the ground as the orange sun cast long shadows as the light faded from the sky. It was Halloween night, and it was the first year that Samantha Nichols was old enough to go trick-or-treating. She lead her father excitedly by his hand out into the yard, pulling him past the carved jack'o'lanterns and cobwebbed tombstones. Her father laughed as they ran, readjusting his costume as it slipped off of him.
As they hurried past their driveway into the lawn of the neighbors, a figure rolled out of the shrubs in front of them. Springing to his feet, he sprinted towards the confused pair, shouted "Take this, pond scum!" and slammed his fist into Mitch's abdomen. He doubled over in pain, his daughter angrily shouting at the man, who was rushing towards a waiting black van.
"Daddy, daddy, are you alright?" Sam worriedly looked over the figure kneeling on the ground. "Do I need to get mommy?"
He groaned, pushing himself up with one hand and dusting himself off with the other.
"I'm fine sweetie," he said. "It'll take more than that to put your ol' dad out of action!"
He glanced towards the street, which the van had quickly vacated. He shook his head at the absurdity of it all and took his daughter's hand as they walked towards the first house.

Agent James sat in the back of the van, head in his hands. He had failed. His first major mission, and he blew it. Not only was the shark still mobile, but it still had the hostage. He was in for a demotion for sure, probably all the way down to Bait duty. The shark was free to roam and cause havoc, and it was all his fault. He sighed, pulled out the materials from the pocket in front of him, and began to write up the report. They would have to send out a squad tomorrow to clean up his mess, for sure.

Shark #: 32145
Shark Class: Terrestrial
Shark Punching Commands: Shark-32145 cannot be directly punched in the frontal cranial region due to a hostage human being used as a shield. Due to this, agents are to approach the shark as swiftly as they possibly can, apply direct pressure to the frontal thoracic area of the shark, and retreat just as swiftly. Multiple agents may be required to carry out SPC repeatedly if the shark needs to be punched further.

Description: Shark is approximately 1.4m long. Notable features of this shark include fully functional lower appendages used for bipedal locomotion and a lack of the rough texture normally found on shark skin. More frighteningly, the shark appears to be holding an adult male captive in its mouth. As recovering the subject at this point would require actions further than those described in the Shark Punching Commands, this male adult has been deemed irretrievable. It is unknown whether this subject is aware of his condition or not. This shark is extremely dangerous due to its terrestrial locomotion, as well as its obvious parasitism and possible telepathic or anesthetic abilities. Under no circumstances should this shark be kicked, as it may kick back. Agents must move faster than with aquatic sharks, as this shark is fully mobile on land and can move as rapidly as some of our agents on land.
Addendum: Alright agents, I'm sure you've all heard of these. I've heard the whispers around the halls and cafeteria, and, well, it's happened. We have a Type Brown on our hands. A full-fledged humashark that needs to be taken care of immediately. Here's what you do: You run up and punch it before it has time to react, because the moment it has time to react is when it all goes to hell. Godspeed and good luck. -Boxer █████


ATTENTION ALL SITE PERSONNEL
Due to the unique circumstances that have traditionally surrounded the date of October 31, and the allegations that it acts as a catalyst for anomalous phenomena, all Site staff have been placed on high alert and all available agents and MTFs are to be put on a 24 hour standby period.
Since its founding, the Foundation has experienced or recorded anomalous phenomena on an estimated 72% of dates correlating to October 31. While there is no conclusive theory or explanation for this high rate of anomalous occurrences on this particular date, it is highly encouraged that all Site staff exhibit a heightened state of alert and vigilance.
For your reference, listed below are several excerpts of previous anomalous phenomena that had occurred on this date in order to give you an idea of what to expect. Note that this is not a comprehensive list of incidents.

October 31, 1955
Sightings of what appears to be an American warship occur simultaneously at over thirty six coastal areas across the globe. Cross referencing of eyewitness accounts of the ship in question point out the exact same identifying remarks, and testimony suggests that it may possibly be the USS [REDACTED]. This conflicts with records showing that the ship in question had been transferred over to the Hellenic Navy and was confirmed to be in port during the time of these events.
Due to skepticism about the plausibility of such an event, it was determined that no amnesic measures were necessary.

October 31, 1972
Doctor Wondertainment releases a new candy into circulation called “FIRE POPS”. It is advertised as a hard candy that grants the eater the ability to breathe fire at will as long as it remains in their mouth. The annual average of damages and injuries caused by fire increases sharply in several countries due to this one day alone. Doctors also note a sudden surge in patients complaining about slightly burnt tongues. Incidents are covered up as crimes by serial arsonists. It is unknown how much candy was produced or how much remains in circulation, if any.

October 31, 1980
After a series of brief, unexplained power outages in various Foundation sites, Dr. Lott submits a request to have the date of October 31 to be officially listed as an SCP on the grounds that it acts as a catalyst for anomalous phenomena. After a period of twenty four hours, the request is denied unanimously by the O5 Council.

October 31, 1992
Multiple instances of SCP-701 manifest as the subject of numerous schools' Halloween plays. The damage is catastrophic and takes three months to fully contain and cover up. All recovered instances of SCP-701 are immediately destroyed.

October 31, 1993
SCP-895's area of effect suddenly and rapidly expands, encompassing most of █████████████. For approximately 0.6 seconds, all broadcast signals within the area of effect are replaced with security footage of SCP-895. Fortunately, exposure is too brief to cause any serious damage, though there were sharp increases in cases of cardiac arrest, insomnia, and hysteria.
Since public exposure to SCP-895 was negligible, no major cover-up measures were deemed necessary.

October 31, 1994
Several crates of Doctor Wondertainment brand Halloween masks are disseminated among the general public. The masks are classified as minor cognitohazards, as they lead the wearers to believe that they are the character their mask portrays. The vast majority of related incidents are harmless, and the true number of cases is difficult to separate from genuine holiday behavior, such as occasional street brawls and numerous pranks. The Foundation begins a rigorous campaign to collect and destroy any and all Halloween masks in the affected areas.

October 31, 1995
Site-██ is suddenly attacked by a horde of sentient jack o' lanterns that all speak in rhyme in an event later dubbed “The Great Pumpkin War”. Onsite security forces are quickly overwhelmed and forced to withdraw, leaving several sectors of the Site infested. The situation is only resolved when Agent Franks lures the attackers into a storage warehouse containing stockpiles of SCP-504 meant for testing. It takes approximately six months to completely clear the site of wreckage and organic debris.
Agent Franks is awarded a commendation for bravery and ingenuity under fire.
Agent Franks is subsequently transferred to Antarctic Surveillance Site 2 on a six month tour for “willful destruction of Foundation property”.

October 31, 1997
Contact with D-Class Holding Facility 6 is lost for exactly thirteen seconds. Both the staff and the D-Class personnel at the facility report having blacked out during the thirteen second gap. When they regained consciousness, all personnel were dressed in seemingly random Halloween-themed costumes. Later analysis suggests costume choice was based on the wearer's subconscious desires. All costumes are confiscated and incinerated. D-Class Holding Facility 6 is immediately decommissioned due to security concerns, with all Foundation personnel transferred and all D-Class personnel having their termination schedules accelerated.

October 31, 2000
The powers of hundreds of latent reality warpers suddenly and simultaneously manifest around the globe, sparking countless reports of anomalous activity and phenomena. Collaboration with the Global Occult Coalition results in the termination of 99% of the awakened reality warpers within three weeks. The remaining 1% are currently unaccounted for. This event proves to be the most costly October 31st phenomenon to contain to date.

October 31, 2001
SCP-024 delivers a DVD to onsite personnel despite the fact that there were no recent experiments. Footage shows the interior of SCP-024 as a Halloween-themed obstacle course and haunted house, challenging contestants to brave various supernatural obstacles and threats. Closer analysis of the footage shows that all identifiable contestants were previous test subjects that were sent into SCP-024 and never returned. The individual previously classified as D-4369 wins the contest and exits the studio, where he is immediately terminated by onsite security due to him showing signs of [REDACTED] as a result of exposure to supernatural elements within SCP-024. His prize, an all expenses paid trip to Cancun for one week, is confiscated by the supervising doctor.

October 31, 2007
The annual Marshall, Carter, and Dark LTD. Halloween Ball is disrupted when several individuals believed to be affiliated with Are We Cool Yet? breach security and attack the guests with ossification grenades. Despite MCD's refusal to divulge information on the attack, casualties are thought to number at least three hundred. Recovered traffic camera footage shows several delivery vans leaving the MCD compound at high speed approximately two minutes after the attack began. Investigation into the matter is still under way.

October 31, 2008
Factory brand toothpaste is disseminated in several countries, with an anomalous chemical composition designed to harden tooth enamel to a point that exceeds the current Mohs hardness scale. Fortunately, incidents in where the toothpaste was used were limited, and the remaining samples were collected via staged product recall.

October 31, 2009
SCP-802 exhibits abnormal behavior when the music it plays no longer sounds degraded or filtered, as if being played by actual instruments rather than from a recording. SCP-802 also switches to songs of the period that are considered more traditional for Halloween. Eyewitness reports from security staff present state that this behavior continued until midnight local time, when the music abruptly stops. The security staff also claimed to have heard sounds similar to applause and laughing for several seconds after the cessation of music.

October 31, 2011
For the first time since containment, SCP-204 makes a verbal request to onsite staff for a bucket of candy and a small size Halloween witch costume. When asked upon its reasoning, SCP-204 replies it is for “a surprise”. Request is granted. However, subsequent attempts to have SCP-204 speak again or evoke any sort of response are not successful.
Dr. Lott resubmits his request to have October 31 listed as an SCP. As of the publishing of this report, no final decision has been made.

Remember to stay on heightened alert and be sure to immediately report any suspicious activity to your superiors or security staff. Have a safe and happy Halloween.
Secure, Contain, Protect.


Outside, there is a slight chill in the air. Somewhere, costumed children flicker from house to house, squealing with the anticipation of a potent, yearly sugar rush. Candles gutter in the wind from behind carved faces. The bars are full of the sloppy, intoxicated, and underdressed, a casualty of the marketing genius who had first decided that Halloween could be an excuse for nominal adults to dress like streetwalkers. Some festive soul had even hung a bucket of candy on the automated chain gun emplacements out front; it was a juxtaposition of the light-hearted and lethal that made my skin crawl. Before this was Halloween, it was a holiday where it was said the dead would walk, where the veil between the world and the underworld gave way like a haunted-house cobweb.
For me, this was never a fun-filled holiday. It was serious work – one of the more serious nights of work that I had every year, serving the Foundation.
My name is immaterial. They call me ‘Padre', which is fine with me; there is a certain forced jocularity to it, reminiscent of bluff country folk and bad cop shows. I am – was – a priest, though I've left my Orders for a more important mission. I was one of the ones affected when SCP—oh, the number doesn't matter, it's long since neutralized. But I was recruited rather than made to forget; I found myself wanting to help, as if I'd been waiting all my life for an enemy I could name, a threat to souls that I could see and touch and protect humanity from. In another age, perhaps I'd have been a Templar or a crusader, a saint or a martyr; instead, I found myself in charge of SCP Task Force Psi-11, “The Gods Squad”. Our technical responsibility reads, in part: “an ad hoc team to deal with any religious or religion-related crisis or issue in the Foundation, either external or internal”. What it means in plain language: if the Foundation has a chaplaincy corps, I suppose we're it.
And that is why, on a chilly night in October, I am alone with a million faces.

ITEM#: SCP-1446
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1446 is only active once per calendar year. Originally part of Sector-38 (located in an unmapped cave complex under the Texas Hill Country), it is now considered an immobile SCP in containment at Sector-38. During its inactive phase, SCP-1446's only point of entry is to be locked with a dual complement of locks equal to or exceeding Class Six. During its active phase, the locked doors are to be opened, and the following additional procedures are to be initiated: SAMHAIN-026 (including salt, powdered cold iron, and running water) and TOCSIN-003.

1446 is an underground chamber, so the temperature is an even 18 degrees. This part of the system is dead, dry, so it is an excellent place to preserve things. Things like photographs – which is perhaps why someone or something, in the first few months of 2000, started posting photographs on the strangely smooth walls. Each photograph was of a Foundation operative killed in the line of duty; each shot a candid picture of one human life given in service to the greater part of humanity. Perhaps more to the point, each photograph just – appeared on the limestone walls of the chamber. Cameras showed nothing, audio showed nothing. There would just be more photos, every day – a mute testimony to lives cut short.
The lab coats moved in, of course. There was nothing unusual about the photos, nothing unusual about the cave. Tests were inconclusive, unresponsive, mute. Summer came and went, and after the 116C Incident in August, Sector-38 was short on personnel. Somehow, the wall of photos didn't seem as important.

Description: SCP-1446 is a stone wall 8.2 meters high and 37.8 meters long, the south wall of a dead cave located at [EXPUNGED], part of Sector-38. ██% of the wall is covered with a mosaic of identical, 5-cm square photographs of individuals identified as Foundation personnel killed in the line of duty. New photos appear irregularly, within [EXPUNGED] of the individual's death. Pictures only appear for those personnel killed; natural deaths do not result in manifest.

I am not wearing any priestly garb tonight – it's tank top, running shorts, good shoes, and a pair of heavy canvas gardening gloves. I check my watch – 9:36 pm. The trick-or-treaters will be retreating now, returning to their homes with their mask-gotten booty, just ahead of the darkness that will finger its way quietly down the streets as porch lights are extinguished. It will be the day before the new moon tonight; the spook squad says that 1446's yearly activity cycle is made more or less active by moon phase. A waning moon, just before new, means that only ice and Oxycontin will let me raise my arms tomorrow morning.
This is the sixth time I have done this. The bell above my head gleams in the dim light; I can see the old seal of the city of Glasgow on its side, lettering below spelling out ‘St Mungo's' and ‘1641'. It was rung for two hundred years and more at funerals; it kept the evil spirits away and helped the dead rest easy. I grimace at that thought, a humorless smile that does little to cheer me. For the sixth time, I check the great hemp rope; it will hold through the four hours.

INCIDENT REPORT, SECTOR-38, 10/31/2000:
Precisely at 2200 hours, standard security audio reported activity in the hallway outside Chamber 091, colloquially known as the ‘Photo Room'. Security Detachment Gamma responded per protocols, and failed to check in at the required five-minute mark. Detachment Epsilon was dispatched, and found the five members of Gamma [REDACTED], along with an estimated twenty-three liters of human blood. At that point, Epsilon was attacked by [REDACTED] and was forced to retreat with casualties.
In the next four hours, ██% of the staff at Sector-38 were killed in the same manner as the members of Team Gamma. This included nine staff members who took refuge in a standard Foundation Class Three panic room. All activity ceased at 0200 hours on November 1.

So does a photograph trap a mortal soul?
I can't answer that, any more than I can tell you why a Scottish ‘dede bell', rung constantly during the four hours of SCP-1446's active phase, keeps the monsters at bay, keeps the dead operatives – or something that looks like them – trapped in their photographs. I try not to think about why – why is for the lab coats and the Overseers. What I do is pray, shut up and listen, and do my job. And tonight, that means I will ring a bell, once every five seconds, for four hours.
But, in the shadows of Halloween night, in a cave lit by pitiless electric light, I can't help wondering – is this an illusion? An anomaly, a random interlocking weave of energy and time and human belief? A phenomenon with a rational, scientific answer – even if we don't know what it is?
Or are the souls of those killed in the line of Foundation duty not allowed to rest, even in death?


Note: This is a SCP-1483 tale, so reading it before reading this is recommended.

Soto was beginning to have second thoughts about the concept of Democracy. He barely stifled a sigh as his cohorts' bickering entered its second hour, and his headache was getting worse by the minute. Gorza Dun Vent was currently on the attack:
“Hubrus, would you make up your mind already?”
“Er… I dunno.”
“Come on already, you stinking sack of wet fur! I'm hungry!”
“Umm… I vote for the Holey Pantry.”
“Saqinian food again? We ordered that last night, and you're the only one who actually likes that sodding crud! Where did you even get that flier?”
“Don't you oppress him, you four-armed bastard! He's a gentle soul.” This came from Uniel Dun Vent, the "Watcher-Upon-All".
“Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot you needed six arms to properly oppress people!”
Freedom from the tyrannical rule of Utmai Cjen VI and the IIPES, building a place where everyone would have a voice, that was what they were supposed to be about. The longer Soto had to spend with the group currently called The General Independence Troops, the more attractive the idea of no one having a voice at all became.
“Would you two be quiet? Hubrus, is Grey Mountain Country Buffet acceptable?”
The huge man of Black Court shifted uncomfortably. “Err, okay, Soto.”
“Now that the all-important business of takeout is reserved, can we finally move on to the urgent business of today?”
“Fine.”
“It is acceptable.”
“Umm, okay."
"No. I have a issue I want to discuss. It is of burning urgency."
This time, Soto couldn't stop himself from audibly sighing. This whole "Glorious Revolution" business was turning out to be quite a bit more difficult than he first imagined. The root of the problem was, as ever, that he needed other people for it. And what a choice of companions did he end up with:
First was Hubrus, the dimwit Black Court member. Stupid as the big furball was, he was still easily the most tolerable of the four. He was basically harmless, except for a strange fascination with some outsider creature he called "cats". Currently, he was wearing an enormous shirt with two of the mangy things plastered on it in bright colors. Soto had no idea how he got his hands on the garish thing.
Second were the twins, Gorza and Uniel Dun Vent. They were minor nobility, and had an ego to match. While they were hard enough to deal with individually, together they were completely unbearable, mostly due to being in a constant state of one upmanship. Last week, Gorza started wearing this ridiculous Mender outfit he got from his art school, completed with two gag arms. He thought it made him look menacing. Naturally, Uniel came up with an even more ludicrous Watcher outfit the very next day.
And then there was Glun.
“I want a name change.”
"Again? Come on, Glun, that's the sixth name change you requested in four meetings! What's wrong with it this time?”
The fifth and final member of their company sat huddled on the opposite end of the table. Glun was an Eastlander, the only one Soto ever met. If all of them were as infuriating as the chubby little pyromaniac, he hoped never to see another.
“It makes us sound like a bunch of pencil pushing bureaucrats.”
“But you chose that name!”
“Well it sucks now. I have a much better name: the Soldiers of the Oppressed Demographics. Makes us sound legit.”
"Legit? Legit to whom? The Inquisition?"
"I'm not going to discuss anything until we change the name."
"Fine! Now can we please get on with today's agenda? Please?"
There were no objections this time, to Soto's relief. "Alright then. First order of business: does anyone has any plans to overthrow the oppressive hierarchy subjecting the common man?"
"We could burn down an orphanage."
"…What?"
"That would show them, you know. Make them understand we mean business."
"I think you misunderstand the meaning of my 'what', Glun. It wasn't an "Oh please, elaborate" sort of 'what'. It was a "what the hell is your problem, you bloody lunatic" sort of 'what'!"
"You never go with any of my ideas!"
"That's because all of your ideas involve burning something! Next please!"
Gorza raised his hand- one of the real ones. "I got an idea. I'll infiltrate the Shining Order using my disguise, gain the trust of its leadership, and organize a coup! The Empress would never expect an attack from her loyal Menders, she'll be entirely unprepared for it. It cannot possibly fail."
The only thing stopping Soto from slamming his palm into his forehead was that it would only make his headache worse. "See, Gorza, this would indeed be a foolproof plan, if not for one little problem."
"And what would that problem be?"
"That outfit of yours? The one you're so proud of? The crux of your entire plan?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"It sucks. It wouldn't fool a blind stripped bird, let alone the leadership of the Shining Order. I suspect the only reason the Inquisition lets you get away with wearing it is that they feel so sorry for you. Your exoskeleton is made of painted cardboard, for Stone's sake!"
Gorza muttered something under his breath, but settled down in his seat without further objection. Uniel gave him a smug look, then raised her hand.
"And if your idea is the same as Gorza's, only replacing the words "Shining Order" with "The Royal Bureaucracy", Uniel, you can just forget it."
Uniel's hand descended.
"Anyone else?"
To Soto's surprise, Hubrus raised his hand next. "Err. We could try to make a deal with the outsiders, maybe? I've been hanging around their embassy lately, and they don't look all that happy with the way the IIPES treats them. I think they want to see the stuff the IIPES has hidden in the Vaults, and they won't let them. So, we could go to them, and promise to let them see everything they want if they help us get rid of the Empress."
The room was silent for a moment as the rest of the crew considered this.
"That's the most idiotic plan I've ever heard, even from you."
"I'm sorry, darling, but I have to agree with Gorza on this one."
"And there's no fire involved too."
"You know the outsiders are utter barbarians, Hubrus. They can barely be trusted to tie their own shoes, not to mention bringing down the Empress. What were you doing hanging out near their embassy anyway?"
"I… I wanted to see the cats, Soto. That's okay, right?"
"It's fine, Hubrus. I'm sure cats are very nice. Any other ideas?"
Silence.
"We put a rain check on it, try again next time?"
"No! I've had enough! No one leaves until we come up with at least one plan, got it!?"

The crew sat on the roof of Uniel's studio apartment and watched the orange glow light the streets of Rootrel.
"I can't believe you guys convinced me to go through with this."
Not much could be seen from their vantage point, but the sound of screaming was unmistakable.
"Hey, you said we had to come up with a plan, and it was getting late."
Soto could hear the sirens of the fire brigade nearing the burning building. "Maybe they could stop the fire before anyone got seriously hurt," said Hubrus, who seemed even more uncomfortable than Soto with the entire ordeal.
There was a sudden crashing sound, and the screaming suddenly stopped. It seemed the building had collapsed. "Oh."
"When I burn something down, it stays burnt." Glun leaned over the rails, watching the scene with a worrying degree of enthusiasm.
"You guys do realize this accomplished nothing, right? We are in no way closer to bringing down the Empress, unless those orphans were all secretly Inquisitorial spies."
"They might have been, you don't know that they weren't," said Gorza, a hint of indignation in his voice.
"They were always a shifty bunch," agreed Uniel. "And besides, even if they weren't, there's always next week, eh?"
Soto couldn't argue with that. "Yeah, there's always next week."


October 24
"I hate this holiday." Doctor Johnathan West cleaned egg off of the card-reader, swiped his ID, and entered the S & C Plastics building. Had this been any other Foundation-owned location, the jokers who had decided to plaster the site in chicken ovum (some of which smelled like it had been rotting since Easter) would've been detained. But no; instead, this was Site 87, and was in the backwoods town of… let's just call it Backwoods, and people would get suspicious of kids disappearing.
West nodded to the girl at the reception desk and took a pair of mini Twix bars out of the stainless steel bowl placed there. He noticed that someone had attached a note reading "Take Only Two" to the bowl, and had left a plastic severed hand in it. Cute, but everyone knew 330 was locked up in another site. Nothing like that would be here, and besides, they never decorated the site anyway.
He took out his Foundation-issue smartphone (quintuple encrypted, needed at least 6 different pass-codes to unlock, pain in the ass if the screen didn't respond) and checked his e-mail. He saw the invitation to the Site 87 Halloween party and automatically deleted it; after the fiasco last year, he wasn't about to go again. They'd yet to figure out who spiked the punch with E-5719, and Agent Ewell still turned yellow if you got him angry enough.
Ewell's used to being yellow, I'm sure.
Also in his e-mail was an invitation to Dr. Pickman's online seminar regarding anomalous works of literature ("Maybe I'll go to one of Pickman's lectures when he stops being such a self-important blowhard."), a reminder from Doctor Margaret Reese in Biology that it was his turn to pick up coffee tomorrow, and something about a pool for buying Halloween candy. He shrugged, pocketed his phone, and headed for his office in the inanimate objects wing.

October 25
"Oh, come on! Twice in two days?!" Once again, Site 87's exterior was coated with eggs, and this time, toilet paper, too. The security staff were scratching their heads, but West had to give the pranksters credit, they were efficient. In the space of only a single night, they had practically mummified Site 87 with sticky egg residue and toilet paper all over. On his drive around town to the local Dunkin' Donuts, he had seen that about a quarter of the houses had been either egged, TP'd, or both. The rest were perfectly intact, with their Jack O' Lanterns grinning, their fake cobwebs untorn and the foam gravestones sticking out of their yards unbroken.
Security was baffled, nonetheless. In the break room, the guards were talking about how nobody showed up on the hidden cameras, and that eggs and rolls of Charmin were being thrown at the building from just off of the frame. When security actually went outside the building to confront the vandals, nobody was there. West had to admit that was just a tad disconcerting, but it was security's problem, not his.
West traveled to his office and spent the rest of the day alternately looking out his window at the cleaning crew, checking his e-mail, and attempting to concentrate on a report about E-331.

October 26
Everyone was asking the same questions all day: "How the fuck did they get on the roof?!" "And who the hell makes toilet paper rolls that long?!"
A reminder to all staff was issued that "All Halloween costumes based on Keter Class SCPs are forbidden. Most of them are classified, anyway. And yes, this does include -ahem- "sexy" costumes based off of SCP-682." West sighed at the fact that they had to be reminded of that. He remembered briefly considering taking a Class-Omega amnestic after seeing one of those aforementioned costumes at a party three, four years ago. 682 with tits was just… wrong.

October 27
"Sorry, West. You pulled the shortest straw. You gotta go buy the candy." West gave Dr. Reese a look, and held up his straw for comparison to the others, sighing. Melbourne was grinning like a fool, but Reese smiled at West. "C'mon. It's for the kids. And don't buy all black licorice; we want people in this town to think we're not completely evil." She handed West the money collected for the candy pool (about 400 dollars), as well as an extra 50. "The janitorial staff is running low on detergents."
Poor Maggie. If only she knew how Johnny felt…
"Got it. Mind if I use your van? I worked all night, and left my car in the lot…"
"Got egged?"
"Can't even see out of the windshield."
Reese handed West her keys and nodded to him on his way out.
West drove through town, noticing that there were far more houses with decorations and far fewer houses that had been vandalized… he wondered if there was a connection, and remembered he had to tell someone back at the Site about that. For now, he had to focus on getting the treats for the kids (why Site 87 decided to hand out candy annually was beyond him; something about "Community Outreach". From a supposed plastics company.) and wondering what, exactly, was so bad about black licorice. It was delicious, once you acquired the taste for it.
An hour later, he drove back to the site. It was getting dark out. As he drove down a side street, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a roll of toilet paper being thrown at a house lacking decorations. That tore it; he was going to find out who these little pricks were. He slammed on the brakes, took out his smart phone, and… took a photograph of a toilet paper roll throwing itself at a house.
And then an egg came sailing at his face. He quickly ducked back into his car and drove off, cursing loudly. "I HATE Halloween!"

October 28
"Let me get this straight," said a research assistant from the back of the presentation hall. "Living rolls of toilet paper? And… they attack undecorated buildings?
"Pretty much," West said rubbing his eyes, "But they're just autonomous. Not alive." The photograph he took with his smartphone was on display on the projector screen behind him; the director of the site had approved the meeting at the last minute because, in her words, "If it means we stop smelling egg everywhere, it's worth it".
"It explains why the security cameras didn't see anything; there was nothing to see. Just toilet paper flying at the building from nowhere."
Dr. Reese chimed in. "And how they got onto the roof… but what about the eggs?"
"I don't know, maybe it's a poultrygeist. I honestly don't know." He looked at the picture behind him and sighed. "I hate this holiday."
"Well, what can we do? Do we attempt to incinerate them?" Everyone stared at the person who made the suggestion incredulously; it was the same research assistant, who sank in his seat. "…right, I know, Special Containment Procedures, not Special Destruction Procedures. Just a suggestion…"
"Well, firstly… I propose we attempt to catch a 'live' specimen, and then attempt to…" West sighed. "Protect ourselves from this phenomenon." He picked up a box next to him and opened it; it was full of foam gravestones, fake cobwebs, and chains of plastic skull-lights. "Right. Once we actually catch one of these things, we… decorate the site. I've asked the horticultural department to provide a number of pumpkins for those who want to do Jack O' Lanterns and you'll find decorative materials by all the entrances. Any questions?"
Reese smirked at West. "I thought you hated this holiday, Johnathan."
"Desperate times, Doctor. Any other questions?" Nobody spoke up. "Right then. Let's get to work."

October 29
"Congratulations, agent. You've managed to successfully contain a roll of Charmin and some dairy products." Dr. West watched the new E-Class Object, E-5768, through the plexiglass window. It looked ridiculous; it was a roll of toilet paper, with a dozen eggs orbiting around it. Every time an egg got broken or thrown, a new one spontaneously generated itself. Dr. West was making notes on his clipboard. "Ectoentropic properties… telekinetic in nature… and… What do you think, Ewell? Safe-class or just Anomalous Item? The latter means I have less paperwork to do…"
Agent Ewell stood next to West, with literal egg on his face. It had taken him over an hour of driving around town to capture a specimen and then he had to grab it with a butterfly net… he didn't expect eggs to come flying out of nowhere. And now, he looked like an omelet. "Sir?"
"Yes, Ewell?"
"With all due respect, there are some times when I really fucking hate this town."
"Could be worse. You could be assigned to active MTF duty trying to contain sapient fungus or something."
"I'd take the fungus over this place any day."
West picked up a box of plastic vampire bats and handed them to Ewell, picking up a box of orange streamers for himself. "Shut up and help me decorate; we're supposed to have the western half finished by 1600 hours."
"Yes, sir."

October 30
"Well, looks like your brilliant theory was correct, Doctor! Not a single egg or roll of paper on the building this morning!" Reese held up her coffee. "I propose a toast! " The rest of the break room all held up invisible glasses and said "Hear hear!"
West smiled amicably, running his hands through his hair. "Thank you, but there is no guarantee that the events will not occur again in another year…"
"They ain't egged us today, and that's what matters!" Matterson sighed. "Guess we can all get back to work now that we don't have to help scrape eggs off the building."
"Just in time for the party, too. Ya goin', West?" Reese grinned at the doctor.
"I don't think so, no." This was met by sarcastic boos and hisses. "Oh, so sue me if I don't want to have purple skin and blue hair until Christmas this year, too!"
"That was a fluke, West, and you know it."
"Tell that to Ewell."
"Even I'm going, despite what happened! C'mon, John, don't be a Hallowiener…" Eventually, after much encouragement and friendly jabbing, West agreed to go. He supposed he could always dig out that gorilla costume, even if it was a pain to breathe in.
For today, though, they'd just have to put up with giving out candy to the kids who came around. They kept the best for themselves, of course. And through it all, West couldn't help but find himself smiling. It had been a long week, but it had also been a pretty good one. So what if the place still smelled of egg and there were a few scraps of toilet paper on the walls? The anomaly was contained, he was appreciated by his co-workers, and he might even get an official commendation. For putting up decorations!
After the trick-or-treaters were gone and most of the staff had either gone to their apartments in town or their on-site quarters, he leaned against the door to his office, talking with Dr. Reese and chewing on some licorice. "You know," Reese said, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're starting to like this holiday, Mr. Grinch."
"It's nice enough, I suppose." He looked at his watch. "Five minutes til Halloween. After tomorrow, this crazy month will finally be over."

October 31
"This is Halloween, This is Halloween…" Reese grinned at a rather unamused looking Dr. West. At least, he looked unamused because of the gorilla mask. "What? Not going to comment on my costume?"
"…a skeleton in a pinstripe suit?"
"Jack Skellington! Right, I forgot, you don't watch holiday movies."
"I do! I watched Charlie Brown Christmas, It's Thanksgiving Charlie Brown…"
"But not the Halloween one, I bet. Now come on. Everyone's waiting to see the man of the hour." She dragged him towards the break room, where a techno version of The Phantom of the Opera was playing. Everyone was dressed up in hokey costumes, and, thank god, nobody was dressed as a skip. Everyone who recognized Dr. West gave him a pat on the back, everyone was dancing, and the punch wasn't spiked! Well, there was some vodka in it, but no amnestics, no chemicals that alter skin color, nothing anomalous. It looked like it was going to be a good night.
And then the containment breach alarms went off, along with the music. Everyone groaned, and the site director (dressed as the Black Knight from Monty Python) stepped up to tell everyone that it was a small breach, only one item, Safe class…
It was at that exact time that E-5768 flew into the room. Everyone flinched at the menacing roll of Charmin floating 3 meters above the ground, threatening to throw eggs at anyone who moved. It floated over to the DJ booth, and bumped into the record player, starting it up again. And then… E-5768 started dancing. If you could call it that. It wiggled and swayed about in midair, doing elaborate loops and trailing paper behind it. Everyone stared.
"…should we contain it?" Boris Badenov, AKA Agent Ewell, looked around the room at everyone, wishing he had his .45.
"…well," Doctor West said, "I suppose it's not hurting anything. So long as it's not flinging eggs around randomly, I guess it can wait until morning." Everyone nodded in agreement; the world wasn't going to end because a sentient roll of toilet paper wanted to have a good time.
The party continued long into the morning hours of November 1st, after Halloween was officially over. Dr. West and Dr. Reese were the last to leave the party, after West had escorted E-5768 back to its containment chamber. He held his gorilla mask under his arm and sighed. "Have I ever told you how much I love this time of year?"
Dr. Reese elbowed him in the side and laughed.

|Hub|


FIELD REPORT.
ATTACHED: Copies of documents found on the instance's person.
ATTACHMENTS:

DOCUMENT #AF1293-1:
My Dearest Mary,
I hope this letter finds you well. I do not know if it will reach you timely. Infrastructure here in Tukuk is poorly and I have not yet received any of your letters, though I am sure you write. I love you, and you are forever in my prayers.
The construction of the Church is going slowly, and the natives condemn the structure as an affront to their god. They are heretical pagans and do not know of Jesus their Savior. I hope God's grace will fill their ears and they will be swayed.
The sanitation here is terrible. The miasma from the excrement and the swamps poisons the men. Raol was bitten by a native, and he is overcome by an illness causing frothing at the mouth, but I do not fear as I know God watches over me and I am in your prayers.
Yours in Christ, Robert.

DOCUMENT #AF1293-2:
My Dearest Mary,
I doubt that what I write will reach you, but I find solace in the thought of you safe in the Mother Country, safe and ever-faithful. I do hope you do not worry yourself over me; for I am guided by Providence, although I am comforted by the sure knowledge of your prayers.
The persecution in Tukuk is worse than we thought. They have imprisoned me in a cage with metal bars. I am surrounded by vicious rogues, guilty of murder and worse. Not the prisoners, no. Most of the prisoners are deranged, and are incapable of speaking coherently. I fear they were driven mad by captivity. There are hundreds of them, and all they do is scream. But the guards! They are murderers. I hear that they will roast us and eat us. I attempted to converse with them and negotiate my ransom, but instead they threatened and drugged me. I hope I will see you again soon.
Yours faithfully, Robert.

DOCUMENT #AF1293-1:
My Dearest Mary,
I have almost given up all hope. All that drives me is the knowledge that you love me and pray for me. I do not pretend to know our Lord's machinations, but I doubt I will ever see you again. I await meeting God in heaven, and someday you, but not soon, I pray.
I am in the same cage, somewhere in the belly of a huge powered carriage, somewhere in the peninsula. How ludicrous. The native guards dragged me by the collar they had placed around my neck, as if treating an animal, into a room where they exchanged me with other natives. I had hoped they would ransom me, but no. I think they are taking me to my execution. I hope you are safer than I.
Robert.

Item Recovery Log:
An instance of SCP-1845-3 resembling a common raccoon was recovered from the ██████ Animal Shelter, Florida, following the instance demanding he be ransomed by SCP-1845-1, and insisting he was 'spreading the Word of God to the uncivilised Southern natives.' Council employees and volunteers were administered Class-A amnesics. Instance is currently in transit via convoy to Site-19.
SIGNED: Agent Boyles.


In the autumn months, if you walk along the Site-19 grounds and you see an old rusted fence, you might want to see what's on the other side. Over there, the leaves will all crunch underfoot as you walk through the grass. It would seem to be just like any other part of the grounds. But look at the ground. Those stones are the tombs where many fallen men and women lie. D-Class, Researcher, Agent…they're all equal here. So pay a visit to the Site-19 boneyard. Read some tombstones. Maybe even find some old friends.
…
Margaret couldn't help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction as her saw sliced the last sinews of muscle, ridding her of the ugly fake leg some person had swapped for her real leg. Said real leg was lying on the table in front of her, glistening with ebony perfection. The skin was flawless, and the ankle looked like it was young and rich with calcium. The fake one had been gnarled by skin cancer, hideous moles, and wrinkled skin. But as she re-affixed her leg to her hip, she knew that her long foot pain nightmare was over.

Margaret Daniels - She always said that her feet were killing her.

Dr. Vang waited impatiently by the elevator doors, key card in hand. He had some important tests to run, and he wasn't going to be held up by some creaky old equipment that couldn't open the doors on time. After what seemed like seasons, the doors opened. But where was the elevator? Grumbling about how these things don't work the way they used to, Vang stuck his head into the shaft to look around.

Looked up the elevator shaft to see if the car was on the way down - It was.

Agent Ekblad checked his watch. 15 minutes, and still no sign of anomalous atmospheric conditions. The commander was going to want results from tonight's tests - they would be necessary for seizing it away from the Foundation. Juggling a connection to the Insurgency while working on a high level testing facility hadn't been easy, but when he was able to escape with the Insurgents after the gator was captured, it'd all be worth it.

The head of a traitor, eaten by an alligator - Hope to find the body later.

Paul felt a spike of pain shoot up his leg. These damned "heels" were excruciating. It would've been at least bearable if the skin and muscle hadn't been cut away, but Mr. Marshall had decided to do an "experiment". God, his bones were bending. He needed to sit. Get down. the pain in his ankle was beginning to break him he could feel it cracking and it hurt and it hurt and snap. He tumbled forward on broken, useless legs.

Here lies Paul: he was tall, he had a fall, and that was all.

Dmitri felt a bitter cold at the edges of his nostrils. The climb had been arduous, but soon he would be the youngest man to conquer Everest alone. The thoughts of fame and fortune could wait: he needed to actually reach the peak. As he dug his pick into a rock, he heard something. Who was that? How had he gotten up here…

His foot did slip and he did fall.
Help! He cried.
And that was all.


These were the “Her Majesty's Finest”? A half-dozen old men poking around the mortar holes and dugouts amidst the mist and mud and stench of the dead, all in the name of a crone who'd been dead for nearly twenty years?
He didn't think it possible, but Vladislav's already abysmal opinion of the British had sunk even lower over the last hours as he watched them pick up the remains. These were Russian soldiers. What right did a bunch of old men and their underlings have to swoop down upon the battlefield, upon his own blood-stained homeland, and pick apart his countrymen like crows?
Crows. That was a good word for them. The underlings all wore long black coats and gas masks, even when they were unneeded. A red crown was stenciled on the sleeves, above the letters HMFSCP. The old men had no such coats, no such gas masks, no such crown, and as such none of them handled any of the bodies or weapons. They only watched, occasionally croaking out an order or inspecting what the crows had already gathered and sorted.
Drizzle tapped on the tarp above his head, and Vladislav wondered how much longer he and his comrades would have to be here, and how he even came to be in this position, and who had pulled what strings in both countries. They were here to guide and translate and guard, and precious little else.
The old man in the wheelchair licked his lips again. Vladislav shuffled his feet, inching away from the one other inhabitant of the tarp pavilion. The other old men, they were just foolish old men. This man though, he was simply unsettling.
The old man was ancient, well over ninety years old, if not a hundred: He appeared less of a man and more of a sack of bones wrapped in thin, clammy skin stretched tight over knobbly joints and thick blue veins. A thin white wisp on his lip showed where there had once been a bushy mustache. He was layered in coats and blankets to fight off the chill. The blanket across his lap was worn and faded, but at one point would have held a beautiful, intricate pattern. The man's half-blind eyes stared off into the distance, focused on things that were not there.
He had not spoken the entire time Vladislav had been standing there. Occasionally, he would mouth silent words or lick his lips, and that was all.
The crows seemed to have finished collecting the bodies and debris. Several of them had begun drawing circles in the mud around the battlefield, while others wheeled out barrels of powders and liquids and began to spread them in neat symbols. Vladislav had seen this sort of thing twice before: once as a child, and once as they taught him to kill men with a bit of lead. He had learned then that these events were of the kind that, even if one did see it, it was a good thing to say that you had not seen it, and a better thing to know that you did not see it.
Vladislav continued to not see the crows setting up their circles and stakes and symbols in the mud for several cold, rain-drizzled minutes.
“Ugly, isn't it?” A cold, quiet voice croaked in accented Russian. Vladislav looked to the man in the wheelchair to see him licking his lips again. His imagination then, or perhaps it was something that he most certainly did not hear.
No, it was the old man who had spoken. It would be foolish to think otherwise.
“It is what it is,” Vladislav said back to the old man, continuing to not see the crows scrawling and chanting on the field.
“It's very ugly.”
“Indeed.”
Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle.
“In Xanadu, did Kubla Khan, a stately pleasure dome decree…”
What was this gibberish? He was mad, then. Why bring an old madman to this forsaken stretch of forest?
“There was never a dome,” the old man continued. “Twice I went to Xanadu, and I never saw the dome. The Khans never took Xanadu. They broke upon its mountain walls over and over again, and they never entered.”
Vladislav didn't respond. Let the madman ramble. He was too busy not watching the horrible images shimmering across the mortar-pocked mud and splintered trees.
“The men of Xanadu thought that they would bring peace to the world, that all the hordes of the world would break upon their walls until no man had strength for war and then all would share in their glory. Their peace died with them, slowly, by disease and inbreeding. But the idea remained: For peace, men must die.”
Vladislav still listened, but the words fell into uncaring ears. A wonderful story, old man. You were only late by twenty years and a world war for this soldier.
The old man continued.
“Certain legions of the Romans would bring with them great beasts, who consumed the corpses of the dead and turned them into food and water for the troops. In China, I saw a drug that would cause a man's innards to combust when blood was drawn, spraying acid strong enough to melt flesh. The peoples near the South Pole fight wars with women who, each time they are unchained, will twist all creation around them into monsters by their very presence.
“In the jungles of Africa, I once met a tribe who worshiped a giant spider. On the night of the full moon they would feed one of their own to it. They stayed where they were, and kept feeding it, every full moon, despite the fact that the spider was so fat from its meals that it could not leave its pit.
“And here, I've seen dead men shuffling down in the blood and mud of the trenches as they rot without death, and I watch as we pick up what remains of Durand's peace and plan for the next war. It's ugly, and it never changes.”
The old man coughed. It was a horrible, phlegmy noise.
“At the very least I will not live until the next.”
He was quiet.
Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle.
Vladislav went back to not watching the nebulous visions of unfolding unfathomable cosmos and impossibilities and the margins of worlds worn thin. He didn't feel like he had anything to say to the mad old man.
He looked to his left to see the old man reach a trembling skeletal hand for a little bell hanging on the arm of his wheelchair.
Ding-a-ling
The bell hung in the air a moment, out of place, before Vladislav heard footsteps. A man rounded the corner and entered the pavilion. He was wearing a crow's uniform, though he held his mask under his arm, revealing the face of a man about forty years old, with a little grey around the temples and a pencil-thin mustache. His posture was stiff, professional, that of a man ready to serve.
“I've seen enough, Deeds. Take me somewhere warm, please. It's dreadfully cold."
“Of course, sir.”