Matthew Andrews was seated in front of a table. This alone wasn't very unusual, and indeed, the fact that he was seated there didn't cause Matthew any undue concern. The table, located in the interrogation room of an otherwise mostly vacant sheriff's office, didn't provide much in the way of spectacle, he observed. Plastic, scratched, the typical shabby build quality you get with the government issue stuff. The entire thing would probably collapse on itself if he gave it a good shove. Sadly, this was a theory he could not properly follow through, since his hands were cuffed behind his back. Also, he imagined, the two detectives seated in front of him might object. They seemed rather agitated about something, probably whatever one of them kept droning about.
"-And this is very important, Mr. Andrews-" the bald one said, trying and failing to hide his anger by burying his nose in his brown notebook.
"Please, call me Matt."
"It is very important, Mr. Andrews, that you understand just how serious these allegations are, and that you tell us everything you know. Because right now, I feel like you're not."
"In fact, I feel like you're fucking with us," said his mustached partner.
"Me? Heavens no. I have nothing but respect for men of the law. In fact, I consider myself one."
"You work as a clerk in a lumber mill."
Matthew smiled, and said nothing.
"Where are they?" the bald one asked again, eyeing Matthew in a way he must have imagined was professional and detached but really only seemed tired.
Silence.
"We know it was you, Andrews. We found your car, we found the hatchet, and the hairs. Took us a while. You did a good job cleaning after yourself, gotta admit."
"Just not good enough," said the mustached one, positively bristling with zeal. A real blood hound, that one, Matthew mused. The kind that digs around and sniffs, crawling through the underbrush after the fox, into dark tunnels. Even if that meant getting stuck where one really shouldn't. It was hard to tell with this particular brand of dog, he thought, if they chased for their master or for their own blood-lust. A point to consider.
"-Gone all glassy-eyed. Hey buddy, I'm talking to you here!"
Ah, so easy to lose oneself to idle musings. Of his many faults, this one was surely the most profound. Though others might disagree. "I'm sorry, Detective, but I was advised not to say anything without my legal advocate."
Behind him, a door opened. A grey-suited man, immaculate despite the late hour and what was probably a very long drive, entered the room. The mustached detective, reluctant to shift his attention away from Matthew, begrudgingly turned to the man. The hound finds something… unexpected in the tunnel. But it can't let go, now can it? Not when its eyes finally catch that elusive glimpse of red. Gotta dig deeper, ever deeper. Right into the ground.
"Hey buddy, there's an ongoing investigation going on here. Take a hike."
The grey-suited man ignored him, instead leaning to whisper something at the bald detective's ear. Matthew watched the color drain from the man's face. Without saying a word, the detective rose from his seat, fumbled with his belt and produced a key, which he used to release Matthew's cuffs. This didn't seem to sit well with his partner.
"Harry, what the hell is going on here?" The tunnel winds and narrows, and suddenly the hound finds itself stuck. And the tunnel…
The bald detective just shook his head, and sank back into his seat, his hands covering his face. The grey-suited man, seemingly taking great care not to look at Matthew, gestured towards the door. Rubbing his arms, Matthew turned to look at the mustached detective, who was now quietly arguing with his partner, an argument he was clearly losing. The poor man looked positively deflated. Matthew winked at him, and stepped out of the room, leaving the cuffs behind him.
Well, that was the thing about digging, he thought, as he followed the grey-suited man down the dreary corridor of the sheriff's office out to the parking lot, where a black SUV awaited, its engine still on. If you go on digging, you never quite know what you'll find.

"-Before this committee gives its final verdict, do you have anything to say for yourself?"
A rather odd question to ask, Lieutenant Matthew Andrews thought, when the men asking it clearly already made up their minds. Disingenuous, insulting even. No, he wouldn't dignify them with a response, those grey-faced hypocrites. So he didn't. Instead, he simply shrugged, and returned his attention to the table he was seated in front of, placed low before the raised dais that dominated the room. Say what you will about the Ethics Committee, they had a fine taste in furniture. Rich, dark wood, cool to the touch, spread beneath his fingers, a polished smooth plain. Gorgeous, clean of any imperfections. If they could just see it as he did, they would have understood what he did.
"Very well. Lieutenant Matthew Andrews, due to your crimes against the Foundation's charter and its behavioral code, and indeed against common decency, we hereby strip you of your rank and status. Your name will be stricken from your unit's records, your uniform burned, your pension discontinued-" Amusing bit of irony, that. "-and your person released from your control, given to the Foundation to do with as it sees fit. Do you understand?"
He did. It meant that he was their slave now, no different from the D-class they marched daily to the grinder. He supposed that he should have been surprised by that last clause of his punishment, frightened even, but instead he found himself intrigued. He had seen men stripped of their rank before for various crimes committed during their civilian lives, but this? This was new.
"Now, for the last order of business. Your former unit members have requested to see you." The committee member whispered something into a speaker embedded in the dais, and through a side entrance they came, all in full dress uniform. His old commander, a man he served under for more than ten years, addressed the committee, ignoring Matthew entirely.
"May we proceed?"
"You may, as long as you… contain yourself. As per our agreement." There was a hint of grim satisfaction about that last comment.
"Of course, sir. We're all about restraint, aren't we, lads?" A shaking of heads. A cracking of knuckles.
Oh. So that's how things are now, Matthew thought, as the first fist slammed into the side of his head, knocking him off his chair, sending him sprawling. A second landed beneath his left eye. A third, this one carrying the weight and bite of a brass knuckle, slammed into his nose, and he could feel fragile bone shattering. Kicks rained down, smashing into his ribs like jackhammers. Looked like the training regiment he put the men through worked, he thought, they were in fine shape. He tried and failed to curl into a ball, but the men pulled him straight once more. This continued for a while, until a command was barked, and the beating finally slowed to a stop. Through the haze of his pain, Matthew felt a faint breath touching the pulpy mess that was his ear.
"Was it worth it, you bastard?"
Heh. Heheh. Heheheh.
Matthew looked up through swollen eyelids, but not at the captain, who stood just above him, rubbing his bruised knuckles, nor at the other men, who were now shuffling out of the room, muttering to themselves, frustrated by the lack of response from him no doubt. No, he had no need to look at them. No, all he had eyes for was the table, which must have tumbled to the floor during the beating. Its surface was still gleaming, still deep beyond understanding, still… perfect.
"Of course it was."
Face distorted with sudden rage, the captain picked Matthew by the collar of his shirt, and slammed him, face first, at the side of the table. He felt his lips slice open, watched crimson spill on the warm wooden surface. No.
Distorting it, defiling it.
No.
Its perfection tarnished. Order, erased. All that was once clean…naught but filth. Filth, all the way down.
NO!
He bit into the captain's hand. Hard. Warm blood filled his mouth as the captain shrieked. Matthew felt the man hit the side of his head with his other hand, but he wouldn't let go. Not after what he done. Not ever. Not ever. Only problem was, his vision began to fade, black spots everywhere. Numbness.
A voice, distant, barely penetrating the gloomy haze the world seemed to swim through all of a sudden. "That's enough, Captain. I think you made your point. We need him functional." Not the committee member, Matthew thought, finding himself once again on the floor, the taste of iron on his tongue. How…odd.
Then nothing.

A sudden brightness, a sudden flash of pain. The brightness slowly faded away as his eyes recognized the pale fluorescent quietly buzzing above his head. The pain did not.
"Hey, he's up." An unfamiliar voice, soft baritone.
"About damn time." Another, this one female.
"He's a spy, a spy! One of them. Can't trust him, I tell you, just can't. He has shifty eyes." A third, squeaky and seemingly on the verge of panic.
"Nah, that's just the swelling, I'd wager. See those red and black lumps all over? Fucker looks like he dived face first into a biker convention."
"What the hell kind of metaphor is that?"
"S'not a metaphor, Upcard, s'experience."
"You're doing that thing with your S's again. I hate that."
"S'not a thing, it's how I talk."
"Hah! You forgot to do it this time! I knew it!"
The sound of a door opening. Matthew struggled to turn his head towards it, but something held his neck in place. Feeling around it with a bandaged hand, he felt plastic. Looked like the captain didn't stop when he was told.
"I wouldn't try and move too much, boy. You're more likely than not to pass out again, and that'll kinda defeat the point of us coming here." A fourth voice, probably belonging to whoever just came in. Southern, sounded like an old man.
"Immff mmmpf. Mmmf?"
The light above him was obscured, replaced by a face. Bald head, lined, rough features, white stubble. An expression Matthew could only describe as something between amusement and boredom.
"Yeah, wouldn't do none of that either. They had to close your jaw shut with wire, see."
"Mmmph."
"Should thank your lucky stars you're alive at all, honestly. Guess someone in the Ethics Committee had something in for you."
"I hardly blame them, Prosper." A second face joined the first. A woman, dark-skinned, elegant brows arched in distaste. "This guy is a damn freak, even by our standards."
"Wait, lemme see." A third face loomed over Matthew. Chubby, orange beard, beady, sparking little eyes. "Hrm. Dunno if I see it. Just looks like a normal guy to me. Bit more metal though."
"It's a trap, I tell you! They sent him! They want to frame me, again!" Improbably, a fourth face squeezed itself into the now extremely crowded space above Matthew, completely blocking what little light the florescent bulb provided. From what Matthew could see, this last face belonged to a thin, haggard-looking young man.
"Who's trying to frame you now, Hale?" asked the older man, with an aura of one who asked this same question many a time before and didn't really care what the answer would be.
"It's Marshall, Carter and Dark, Prosper! They have it in for me, I tell you. It's them who got me in this mess in the first place, I know it!" the young man replied.
"So you're saying it's Marshall, Carter and Dark who broke into your neighbor's house, beat the ever loving hell out of him, tied him up, robbed him, pissed all over his furniture and kidnapped his dog?"
"No, don't be silly. Marshall, Carter and Dark would never do that."
"So it wasn't them?"
"Of course not. Marshall and Carter did the breaking in, the robbing, the beating and all. Dark just came in for the tying and pissing. He's into that, I tell you."
"And the dog?"
"Dog was all me. Bastard never treated it right. Damn disgraceful it was."
"Mmmfp! Gdmnng mff."
"I think he wants something, Prosper," said the woman, turning to the old man.
"You people are upsetting him, Upcard. Calling him a freak, saying he works for a bunch of dog pissers, poor man must be exhausted. Why don't you give him some time for himself before we wheel him out, eh? You can have our formal introductions later."
With that, three of the four faces withdrew, the orange-bearded man pausing briefly to pilfer Matthew's lunch from the plastic tray hanging nearby. After a moment, Matthew could hear the door closing again. Prosper, however, didn't show any sign that he was about to leave.
"Mmmf. Hmmarmh angmmh?"
"Oh, don't you mind me. I'm just assessing the situation. I have to know what I'm working with here, you see."
"Wmmph?"
"Suffice to say, we're about to spend a lot of time together, you and I. Whether you like it or not. See, for all of the high-and-mighty nonsense you might hear from the Ethics Committee, there's only one thing the Foundation really hates, and that's losing on its investments. And, to our collective regret, you are one."
"Hmmrh."
"So someone up top thought, instead of wasting years of specialized training to the D-class program or, God forbid, the civilian penitentiary system, why don't we make use of you? And so, here we are."
"Hw?"
The face withdrew, then the sound of footsteps and the rustling of a newspaper. A sipping. A sigh.
"Congratulations, kid. You finally made it big. Welcome to Permanent Expungement Crews."


Fade in on a well-appointed living room in a log cabin, with bookshelves, easy chairs, coffee tables, and a green screen in back showing a blazing fireplace and a window through which a snowy winter's night can be seen. Dr. Bright, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater over his shirt and tie, with SCP-963 dangling on a chain over it, is puttering about hanging decorations and arranging hors d'ouevres on a large table, when he stops and looks at the camera.
Dr. Bright: Oh! I didn't hear you come in. Welcome to Casa de Bright. I was just getting ready to host one real hum-dinger of a holiday celebration! There's going to be stories, songs, comedy - and who knows who'll show up! Stick around, won't you?
An instrumental version of "Jingle Bells" plays as the title card flashes on the screen: A KETER KINDA CHRISTMAS, starring Jack Bright and the SCP Players
Narrator (SCP-1965): A Keter Kinda Christmas is brought to you by the Shark Punching Center;
♫ When you need a shark punched right away ♫
♫ Call 555-6412 today! ♫
…And by Dr. Wondertainment's Spider Party; just add water for eighty thousand legs worth of arachnoFUNbia! (Parental supervision required. Your definition of arachnofunbia may differ from that used by Dr. Wondertainment. Avoid use of this product if you are sensitive to spider venom. Not for use in households with pets or which are situated on reclaimed toxic waste dumps and/or Indian burial grounds. Dr. Wondertainment is not responsible for any cases of spideritis, spiderosis, or spidermania caused by use of this product. Not to be used for gambling purposes without the express written consent of Dr. Wondertainment.)
…And by a special grant from the Manna Charitable Foundation.
—-
Fade in on a group of animals belonging to SCP-1845: a fox (King Eugenio), a raccoon, a crow, a baby pig, and a chicken, with several others - which have been dressed in Nativity scene costumes and are standing in front of a manger. Voiceovers are provided as the camera close-ups on them.
Chicken: Where is he that is born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to… come to… line?
King Eugenio: For the last time, to adore him, you foolish peasant!
Chicken: Sorry, my lord. It's hard to memorize lines when you can't hold a script, you know!
Eugenio: We have no time for your petty excuses! Dr. Bright expects us to put on a Nativity story for his Christmas party, and we shall not be made fools of by your bumbling!
Piglet: Well, how come you get to be the baby Jesus? You're not even the right age!
Eugenio: Because the Lord has appointed us king of this realm, and as His elect it is only fitting that we sit in the place of honor and…
Piglet: You just don't wanna have to remember any lines!
Eugenio: You impudent knave! We ought to cut you down where you stand!
Crow: Please, your majesty, spare the lad. He's just a child - and it is Christmas, after all!
Eugenio: Very well. Keep rehearsing! We expect nothing less than perfection when our scene comes! We shall be napping in the next room.
The camera follows Eugenio as he trots out into a darkened chamber and settles down on a pet bed. Just as he is preparing to close his eyes, the door shakes and a red and white "YIELD" sign (SCP-329-J) floats in.
Sign: Ooooooooooooooooooooh! Awaken, Eugenio!
Eugenio: What the… what is this madness? Identify yourself, you varlet!
Sign: Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii am the ghoooooooooooooost sign of Christmas Past! And tonight, my brothers and I have come to show you the errrrrrrrrror of your wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyys! Oooooooooooooooooooooooooh!
The title card flashes: TO BE CONTINUED.
—-
Fade in on Dr. Bright in the parlor, singing to himself.
Dr. Bright: ♫ God rest ye merry Foundation, let nothing ye dismay ♫
♫ Remember that O5-13 was born on Christmas Day ♫
♫ To save us all from Keter duty when we were lead astray ♫
♫ O tidings of Euclid and Safe, Euclid and Safe ♫
♫ O tiiiiiiiiiiiiiidings of Euclid and… ♫
The doorbell rings. Dr. Bright looks at the camera.
Why, that must be my first guest!
Dr. Bright opens the door to reveal three people standing there; Dr. Gears, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater under his lab coat, a mustashioed man wearing a sailor's cap and a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater under his Navy blue blazer, and a blonde woman wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas evening gown.
Why, it's my good friend, Dr. Gears!
Applause. Gears does not smile or acknowledge it in any way.
And his special celebrity guests for the evening, '70s pop sensations the Captain and Tennille!
Applause. Captain and Tennille wave to the camera as the three step in.
Dr. Gears: It was most generous of you to invite us to your holiday function. I hope my choice of guests has not caused any inconvenience.
Dr. Bright: None at all, old friend! How are you hip young cats doing tonight?
Captain: We're doing great, thanks. You know, it's a real honor to finally be invited on your show tonight.
Tennille: I've never been as excited as I am to be on A Keter Kinda Christmas for the very first time!
Dr. Bright: Actually, this is the third straight year you've been on the show!
Dr. Bright holds up a bottle labeled "Class-A Amnestics" and winks at the audience. Laughter.
Perhaps you'd like to play a little song for everyone at home?
Captain: Sure thing, doc. Here's a little something we wrote especially for the show.
Captain walks up to a keyboard which was not previously on the set and begins playing as Bright hands Tennille a microphone and she begins to sing.
Tennille: ♫ Silent night, [REDACTED] night ♫
♫ All is calm, all is [DATA EXPUNGED] ♫
Rond yon Site-19, Staff and D-Class ♫
♫ [REDACTED]'s escaped again, let's kick its [EXPLETIVE DELETED] ♫
♫ Sleep in amnesiac peace, sleep in amnesiac peace ♫
—-
Fade in on SCP-1192 (Timmy) standing on its perch, staring wistfully at a photo sitting on a table, showing a man, a woman, and a young boy in hand-knitted wool Christmas sweaters standing in front of a roaring fireplace. SCP-1987-J-1 (Count Rockula) enters, wearing a hand-knitted, wool fringe-sleeved open-chested Christmas sweater, leather tights, biker boots, and a Fender Stratocaster slung over his shoulder.
Count Rockula: What's the matter, Timmy?
Timmy: It's almost Christmas and I'm not gonna get to see my family.
Count Rockula: You know, Timmy, sometimes I feel the same way this time of year.
Timmy: But you're the Lord of Ultimate Rockness! I'm just a dumb bird.
Count Rockula: Believe it or not, young man, I wasn't always this rockin'. I don't know how many Christmases I spent out on the road all by myself. I wrote a little song about it to help myself feel better. Would you like to hear it?
Timmy: Ok.
Count Rockula: Alright!
Count Rockula walks up to a mic stand and strums a power chord on his guitar.
Are you ready to rock?
Cheering.
I CAN'T HEAR YOU!
Louder cheering. Count Rockula begins wailing on his guitar.
♫ I will rock your Christmas ♫
♫ You can jam with me ♫
♫ Please have blow, and camel toe ♫
♫ And groupies under the tree ♫
♫ Christmas Eve will find me ♫
♫ Where the red light gleams ♫
(Yeah, all the ladies know what I'm talkin' 'bout)
♫ I will rock your Christmas ♫
♫ If only in your dreams! ♫
Count Rockula windmills his guitar and then smashes it over the table, knocking over the portrait of Timmy's family.
So, do you understand now?
Timmy: What's a camel toe?
Count Rockula: It's a… well, it's… say, how old is 18 in bird years?
—-
Fade back in on the party.
Dr. Bright: …but it turned out he'd been dead the entire time!
Captain and Tennille laugh. Tennille sips her eggnog.
Tennille: Great story, Jack!
Dr. Gears: Indeed. Quite an amusing anecdote, doctor.
Dr. Bright looks to the camera.
Dr. Bright: As you folks can see, this is already shaping up to be one happening party! It's a good thing I didn't invite You-Know-Who this year!
Dr. Gears: Doctor?
Dr. Bright: Yes, Gears?
Dr. Gears: I was unfortunately not aware that the individual in question had been disinvited from this year's event. I informed him of the time and whereabouts of the festivities when he inquired to me regarding it.
Dr. Bright: Oh, dear. If he knows we're here, then that can only mean…
The door swings open on its own and in steps Able, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater and a Santa hat.
Able: Did somebody say par-taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay?
Everyone: Able!
Able: Dr. Bright, buddy! What happened? I can't believe you didn't invite me!
Dr. Bright: Able, at last year's party you drank all the eggnog, hijacked Santa's sled, ran over my grandmother, and then wrapped it around a pear tree full of unlikely Christmas presents! Don't you remember?
Able: Not exactly…
Wipe to a flashback of the previous year's party. An obviously intoxicated Able is being handcuffed and read his rights by a group of policemen in the background, while Bright and his guests are arranged in a semicircle on the floor around celebrity guest Willie Nelson. The partiers are clapping in rhythm as he plays guitar and sings.
Willie Nelson: ♫ Grandma got run over by a Keter♫
♫ Walkin' 'round Site 19 on Christmas Eve ♫
♫ Now you can say there's no such thing as an Able line ♫
♫ But as for me and Cain, well, we believe! ♫
Wipe back to the present.
Able: Don't worry, Jack! I'm in a twelve-step program now. I promise, just one drink tonight!
Able grabs the eggnog out of Tennille's hand and chugs it before tossing the cup over his shoulder, where it breaks on the floor.
Maybe two.
Dr. Bright: I swear, Able, if you ruin this party…
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a remote control. The lights on Able's collar start to blink.
Able: Hey, hey, let's all calm down. How about I sing a little song?
Dr. Bright: Alright. Show us what you got!
A string arrangement begins to play as Able sings in a falsetto.
Able: ♫ Away in a coffin, collar 'round his head ♫
♫ The little skip Able wishes you were dead ♫
♫ The fools who oppress him, they all soon shall pay ♫
♫ The little skip Able escapes on this day ♫
Tennille grimaces uncomfortably.
—-
Fade in on SCP-1156 (Wellington G. Wonderhorse) and SCP-1867 (Lord Blackwood) side by side. Wellington is wearing his top hat and a hand-knitted wool Christmas horse blanket, while Lord Blackwood is wearing a slug-sized hand-knitted wool Christmas cape around his neck.
Lord Blackwood: On behalf of her majesty the Queen and all her subjects, I, Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, 8th Viscount of Westminister, do most fondly and sincerely wish you and yours a happy Christmas.
Wellington: And a very 'appy domestic from all the 'orses of ol' Blighty!
Wellington turns to Lord Blackwood.
So, milord, got any Steelys for yer own Bridgwater?
Lord Blackwood: I… I beg your pardon, old sport?
Wellington: Christmas, milord! Stayin' Pope? Got a walnut planned? Somewhere the shakens are hot and the ice rinks are cold?
Lord Blackwood: I should hope that an ice rink would be cold, my equine companion. How else would it function?
Wellington: That's not it atall, milord! I'm just askin' what a bungee like yerself gets up to when he's on a Salford and his trouble's not around to Gibraltar him when he's havin' a matinee with an Ives!
Lord Blackwood: …Come again?
Wellington: Oh, I get it. Think ye're too high-and-mighty to speak th'cant, 'do ya? Well, 'least I ain't no bleedin' tea mug.
Close up on Lord Blackwood as his sluggish visage shifts from confusion, to realization, to anger.
Lord Blackwood: You are such a horse's ass.
Laughter.
—-
Fade in on the party.
Able: So I said to him, 'that's not my arm!' And he said to me, 'and that's not the queen of Gomorrah!'
Everyone laughs. The doorbell rings.
Dr. Bright: Sounds like another one of our guests has arrived! I wonder who it could be this time…?
Bright opens the door to reveal Dr. Rights, wearing a trenchcoat that covers her entire body.
Dr. Bright: Why, if it isn't Dr. Rights!
Applause.
How are you doing? Come on in!
Dr. Rights: I'm doing a lot better now that you're here, Jack.
Cheering and raucous male hollering.
You know, we are standing under the mistletoe…
Dr. Bright: Rights, I didn't put up any mistletoe this year. The Ethics Committee is still reviewing the sexual harassment complaints from last year!
Dr. Rights: Well, how's a girl supposed to have fun then?
Dr. Bright: Why don't you sing a song for all these lovely people?
Dr. Rights: Are you sure?
Captain: Sure! Go for it!
Dr. Rights: Well, alright…
Rights throws off her trenchcoat to reveal a set of hand-knitted, wool Christmas lingerie underneath. Captain's jaw drops; Tennille slaps him and covers his eyes. Pounding bass drums and a lusty saxophone blare as she begins to sing.
Dr. Rights: ♫ Santa baby ♫
♫ Slip a gold watch under the tree, for me ♫
♫ I've been an awful good girl ♫
♫ Santa baby, hurry up my chimney tonight ♫ (wink)
—-
Narrator: And now, a special message from our sponsor.
Fade in on Sally Struthers in a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater against a black screen, standing in front of a table with a small mechanical contraption on it, as "Do They Know It's Christmas?" plays in the background.
Sally Struthers: I'm Sally Struthers. Every year, the Manna Charitable Foundation helps thousands of poor souls around the world on the path to a better life. It's easy to forget in these hectic days that there are so many people in the Third World who don't even know the most wonderful time of the year is upon us. That's why we're asking for your help today with this.
Sally gestures at the box on the table.
This is the Christmas Miracle Maker. Thanks to state-of-the-art terraforming technology, this durable and easy-to-use device, once activated, will induce rapid and aggressive climate change in order to transform its surrounding environs into a perfect snowy winter's day just in time for a white Christmas. The seed banks and genetic samples contained within it will ensure that majestic evergreens just right for decorating and reindeer perfect for pulling a one-horse open sleigh will supplant local flora and fauna, and it can even whip up a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings for those souls in need!
Every one of your donations puts us one step closer to our goal of manufacturing and airdropping 15,000 of these units across Africa in time for Christmas Eve. So please call in your pledge or write a check today - and let them know it's Christmas time again.
—-
Fade in on the party. Agent Strelnikov, who is wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater over his Russian Army uniform, has joined the party and is regaling the crowd with a story.
Agent Strelnikov: And then fourth dirty Chechen bastard says to me, 'Please, kind and merciful and handsome Comrade Strelnikov, you would not be skinning alive a man who wears glasses?' And I said to him, 'Well, now that you give me idea…'"
Everyone laughs except Bright.
Dr. Bright: Strelnikov!
Agent Strelnikov: What? You no like story? Is good story! Won second place on open microphone night at Moscow Comedy Club.
Dr. Bright: But it's not a Christmas story at all!
Agent Strelnikov: It happened on Christmas!
Able: Sounds like my kinda Christmas!
Tennille: Is that really what you do on Christmas?
Agent Strelnikov: You think Chechens care when Christmas is? They sneak into base at night! Kill six of my men! Burn down Christmas tree it take Company Я all week to decorate! That is Chechen Christmas! Ptooey!
Dr. Bright: Can't you at least tell a story with a happy ending?
Agent Strelnikov: Fine. Do you know American capitalist rhyming-man Dr. Seuss?
Everyone responds 'Sure!' 'Yeah!' 'Of course!'
Good. This is Russian version of Dr. Seuss. Is called 'How the Chechen Stole Christmas!'
Everyone: STRELNIKOV!
Agent Strelnikov: What? Has happy ending! Russia get Christmas back, Father Christmas send Chechens to Hell, everyone joins hands and sings.
Dr. Bright: How about a story that isn't about Chechens?
Agent Strelnikov: Bah! All good stories have Chechens.
Captain: Well, how about a song?
Agent Strelnikov: Da! I will sing traditional Russian song of homecoming.
A jazzy brass instrumental plays as Strelnikov rises to his feet and begins to sing.
♫ Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, la la la ♫
♫ La la laaaaaaaaaaaa laaaaaaaaaaaa la la ♫
♫ La la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, la la la ♫
♫ La la laaaaaaaaaaaa, laaaaaaaaaaaa, la la ♫
♫ Trololololololo, lololo, lololo, hmmhmmhmmhmmhmm… ♫
—-
Fade in on a rainy night. King Eugenio is standing alone in a field.
Eugenio: Before we draw nearer to that stone to which you point, answer us one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?
A lightning bolt illuminates the darkness. SCP-173, wearing a black robe with a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater pulled over it, is pointing at a grave marker.
One's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show us!
The lightning strikes again. 173 has not moved, and the camera closes in on the grave reveal the text on the grave: KING EUGENIO II.
No, Spirit! Oh no, no!
The lightning strikes again. 173's other hand reaches out towards Eugenio as if to pull him into the grave.
Spirit! Hear me. We are the fox we were. We will not be the fox we must have been but for this intercourse. Why show us this, if we are past all hope?
The lightning strikes again. 173's hand is open and outstretched.
Good Spirit! Your nature intercedes for us, and pities us. We will honour Christmas in our heart, and try to keep it all the year. We will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within us. We will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me we may sponge away the writing on this stone!
Eugenio reaches out to accept 173's hand. Jump cut to his pet bed as he awakes from his sleep. Frantically, he pokes his head around the corner of the set and shouts to a shocked stagehand as he carries several cups of coffee towards the green room.
Eugenio: You, boy! How much longer is there in the show?
Stagehand: Why, about twelve minutes!
Eugenio: Then we still have time!
—-
Fade in on the party in full swing. Bright looks at the camera.
Dr. Bright: Well, folks, it's almost suppertime, and our guests of honor have agreed to cook! How's it going in there, you kids?
Captain and Tennille emerge from a door leading to the kitchen, holding a silver lidded tray.
Captain: Well, you know how you said to put the goose through SCP-914 on Fine?
Tennille: We accidentally started it on Very Fine instead, so we figured we'd switch it to 1:1 and it'd balance out… and this happened.
Tennille removes the lid to reveal a half-dozen live baby geese waddling around.
Dr. Bright: This is a disaster! Now there'll be no feast! Oh, if only…
The distant sound of sleigh bells becomes audible.
…Could it be?
Dr. Gears: It appears improbable.
The door swings open and Dr. Clef enters, wearing a Santa suit topped with a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater, and carrying a tureen of clam chowder.
Dr. Clef: But it is! Ho ho ho!
Everyone else: SANTA CLEF!
Clef sets the tureen down on the table.
Dr. Clef: Sorry the big man couldn't make it. He said something about the insurance premiums on his sleigh being high enough after last year. But he sent me along to deliver the greatest Christmas gift of all: chowder!
Clef begins ladling soup out to the party guests.
Dr. Bright: Well, isn't this a Christmas miracle! If only we had a roast to go with it, though…
Eugenio: Wait for us!
Eugenio comes running in from offscreen, accompanied by Wellington (with SCP-173 on his back), the Ghost Sign of Christmas Past, Lord Blackwood, Count Rockula, and Sally Struthers.
Dr. Bright: King Eugenio! I thought you'd miss the whole party!
Eugenio: Forgive our tardiness. We were delayed making some last minute adjustments to the Nativity scene. Count Rockula, if you would do the honors?
Count Rockula: Of course, your majesty!
The green screen is pulled away like a curtain to reveal the manger scene - with the baby pig as Jesus, the chicken, the crow, and a pigeon as the Wise Men, a lamb and a tiger as Mary and Joseph, and Timmy fluttering overhead as the angel. Count Rockula begins playing his guitar and singing.
Count Rockula: ♫ O come all ye rockin' ♫
♫ Awesome and bodacious ♫
♫ O come ye, o come ye ♫
♫ And dig this rad scene ♫
♫ Come check this shit out ♫
♫ It's totally bitchin' ♫
♫ O come and let us dig him ♫
♫ O come and let us dig him ♫
♫ O come and let us dig him ♫
♫ Christ the Dude! ♫
Dr. Bright: Now that's the true meaning of Christmas, isn't it?
Everyone mutters inconclusively. "Sure." "I guess." "Why not?" "Actually…"
Eugenio: One more thing. We realized tonight… almost too soon… that we had been inconsiderate to our fellow beasts this year. We wish to make amends. Lord Blackwood, if you would?
Lord Blackwood: It would be my honour, your highness!
Lord Blackwood nudges SCP-662 towards Eugenio. Eugenio picks it up between his teeth and shakes it. Mr. Deeds enters, carrying a lidded silver tray.
Mr. Deeds: As you requested, your majesty, a piping hot Christmas goose, with all the trimmings.
Mr. Deeds sets the tray on the table and lifts the lid to reveal the roasted bird.
Eugenio: Now eat! Drink! Be merry! Enjoy the spirit of this wondrous day!
Dr. Rights leans over and whispers to Mr. Deeds. He nods and produces a piece of mistletoe from his pocket. She takes it and holds it over Able's head.
Dr. Rights: So, Able, how about I cook your Christmas goose?
Able: Lead me to the beast, woman, and I shall wring its neck myself.
Dr. Rights: I don't think you'll have to worry about wringing your own beast's neck tonight.
Extreme close-up on Able with a comic "SPROING!" sound effect.
Dr. Bright: Well, folks, that's about all the time we have. On behalf of everyone here at the SCP Foundation, I'd like to wish you and yours at home…
Everyone raises their glasses and faces the camera.
Everyone: MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Timmy: And 343 bless us, every one!


Person of Interest File #D-0012
Name: Mr. Dark
Known Aliases: Dark is reported to use many different first names, but apparently never attempts to completely conceal his identity.
Description: Reports vary. Usually stated to be a Caucasian male apparently in his mid-60s, approximately 168 cm (5'6"), 80 kg (180lbs), grey hair.
Date of Birth (If known): No documented information available.
Reason For Interest: Reported to be the senior partner of Group of Interest Marshall Carter and Dark, and to be their primary source of anomalous items.
Rules of Engagement: Sightings and other noted activity to be reported via Protocol 12. [If you are not cleared for Protocol 12, report any information to your direct superior and take no further action.]
Biography: Foundation personnel should be aware that unlike most Persons of Interest, the nature and even the existence of a "Mr. Dark" are in dispute. Reports of a Mr. Dark, generally as a creator/purveyor of anomalous items, have existed for over 500 years [see notes from the Royal Society for the Investigation of the Paranormal for reports prior to 1918]. However, no confirmed evidence that such a person exists as a unique individual is available. The following theories are given relatively equal credence:
1. Dark is a unique individual, who has presumably used anomalous means to extend his life.
2. Dark is a long-lived, non-human entity of undetermined nature.
3. Dark refers to a family long-involved with anomalies. Most reports are, in fact, of activities of various descendants of an original Mr. Dark.
4. "Dark" is not a family name at all, but a title given to various unrelated people.
5. "Dark" is a pseudonym used over many years by different individuals.
6. "Dark" is a fictitious individual to whom others attribute otherwise unexplained anomalous items and activities.
Personnel familiar with the report on SCP-1716, which contains first-hand accounts of an anomalous item created under the direction of a "Mr. Dark," should be aware that this is not independent evidence; all we know for certain is that some individual called himself "Mr. Dark" while engaging in certain anomalous activities.

The following document is an excerpt from Lives of the Famous Alchemists, obtained from a contact with alleged access to “The Great Library of the Ways.” No independent confirmation has been found that this book is accurate, or even exists. Although it may appear to be a detailed reference, we consider it a curiosity and give it little credence. Researcher ███████ has annotated a number of doubtful statements.
Guillaume D'Arc (c1403 - ) a.k.a. William Dark, Benjamin Phineas Dark, Johann Dark, best known as a collector/dealer/auctioneer of the rare and curious, has made significant contributions to the science of alchemy, most notably in the field of life extension.
Guillaume D'Arc (or Darc) was born c1403 in the village of Domrémy, Lorraine, the illegitimate eldest son1 of Jacques D'Arc and an unknown mother. An unusually intelligent child, Guillaume was sent to be educated for the priesthood, but failed to complete his studies due to “ill-suited character.”
Little else is recorded of his life until 1429, when he is known to have been present at the Siege of Orleans with his half-sister, Jeanne. Although not known to have made any significant military contributions, his family connection allowed him to make the acquaintance of one of the Marshals of France, Gilles de Rais, with whom he discovered he had a shared interest in alchemy. A series of experiments took place, ending suddenly when D'Arc fled the area and reappeared in London. It is unclear whether D'Arc had just become aware of the murders for which de Rais is now best known, and disapproved, or if he was a collaborator who thought it was best to escape before their activities became public knowledge. In any event, D'Arc was safely away when de Rais was captured and executed in 14402.
Anglicizing his name to William Dark, he soon set up shop in London as a dealer in "unusual objects" – a euphemism for alchemical and magical supplies. Apparently an alchemist of some skill, a document exists proclaiming him "Consulting Alchemist to the Royal Family" in 14553. However, his pursuit of a method of life extension met with little success until the late 1460's, when he met a fellow experimenter known only as "Beatrice", who claimed to be over 200 years old4. While it is not known precisely what he obtained, it is clear that he found some method to stop (or nearly stop) aging. Despite the obvious value of such a method, for unknown reasons Dark has always declined to share it.
[DATA EXPUNGED]
Dark consistently maintained his business in London, taking on a number of different first names and apparently passing the firm on to a descendant when his lack of aging might attract unwanted attention. Eventually Dark was determined to keep a lower public profile, and in 1871 founded a private club, Marshall, Carter, Dark, and ██████ with three partners. The intention was for Marshall and Carter to be the "public" face of the club, interacting with members, while Dark and ██████ researched and procured "unusual" items and experiences for club members. Dark soon had a falling out with ██████, and the club was known as Marshall Carter and Dark as of 1876. Seldom-seen, rumors that Dark was deceased began to circulate, and no effort was made to discourage them.
At some unknown point, prior to 1900, Dark gained access to the extradimensional space known as the Ways, and became a regular visitor to the Great Library. Although generally disliked by other patrons, Dark has always been careful to follow the rules of the Library, and has never been refused access. Rumors of some influence with the Head Librarian have never been confirmed or disproven.
Desiring to spend more time in the Ways, Dark gained ownership of the former ██████ ████████ ████ and converted it to what is generally known as Dark's Museum (to the few who are aware of it). Although accessible through the Ways, the Museum has been rendered private through the addition of both mundane and anomalous security measures. A visitor claims to have seen an extensive collection of unusual items, as well as research facilities for the creation and study of new (and newly discovered) artifacts. Marshall, Carter, and Dark primarily exists as a means to dispose of items that Dark does not wish to keep for his private collection.
Little is known of Dark's recent research, although an extensive visit to New York City is documented in 1942, apparently for the purpose of developing a technological (as opposed to alchemical) means of life extension. Dark is presumed to primarily reside in the Ways, and is seldom seen elsewhere. Most recently he is rumored to have been at least indirectly involved in a major 2012 assault on "Site-17," a secret facility maintained by the SCP Foundation, with the intent of gaining control of one or more anomalous items or individuals.

Out Of Character note: This tale is not site-wide canon. It is part of this project, which you are welcome to contribute to. It is also not a model Person of Interest file.

Footnotes
1. No historical evidence of such a person exists.
2. Extensive records of the de Rais trial exist, with no mention of D'Arc.
3. There is no evidence that this position ever existed.
4. SCP-545-A claims to have never heard of a Mr. Dark, nor to have shared SCP-545-C with anyone.


Daydreams
That's all there is anymore. That's all I can have. I'm an all powerful demigod, locked in the chamber of a little boy. Do you know where the power goes? It flows out our fingers and out soggy clothes into broken men. They seek forgiveness, so here I go. Our mother was there, and the fridge flew out of the way. Mommy's pretty neck, gone in a flash, bursting blood onto my our poor hands, and dripping onto the floor. We're all broken now.
The monsters, the jailers, they hold me now and they won't let me go. They need me whole. They make me fight grammie, but she knows we've already won. This doesn't make any sense. What am I talking about? None of that shit actually happened. I need to get a hold of myself, before I start spouting some more goddamn nonsense. Deep breaths. How many fingers do I have… ten? Ten seems like a good number. One, two, ten. Okay, back.
My name is Andrew, and there's something really wrong with me. I don't know what it is, or how it even started happening… all I can say is that when I was 17, I started to be able to destroy things, just… make them disappear when I touched them. There's no way to control it, because as soon as I try something else gets atomized and somebody else dies.
God… if this… not a jail, but a prison, if they hadn't gotten to me, I don't know how many more people would've died. How many are dead in here, right now? They say I've killed thirty people, but that's probably an exaggeration. Something to get into my head. I know I killed… I killed mom, but that was an accident. I didn't know what I was doing.
But actually, that's not how it happened at all.
My name is Damien, and I'm pretty amazing. Actually, amazing is an understatement. I can do incredible, mind-blowing shit that none of you pussies reading this could even dream of. Look, dude, when you can fuckin' blow shit out of the sky with a touch, you turn some heads. Sure, before I came to this joint, I had a lot of fun with mayhem, but it's cool in here. Where else are we gonna ignite some old hustler and kick back with a Yoo-Hoo?
It's cold in here, but we're still sharp. The instrument sharpens the blade on every whetstone it uncovers, breaking new ground by breaking the bonds in front of him. Every shape it grasps, sees, tastes and touches in one million new ways. Godspeed.
No, you're remembering it wrong. You need to answer us. What is your name?
… I don't have one. I don't know.
Where did you come from?
California. I just… let me get some headspace, okay? This is too much, this is too gone…
Just try to stay with us, okay? Who are you?
I said I don't know! Fuck, can you give me just one goddamn minute?
Please, calm down. You're safe here.
No, but… it's out there. it's… coming out, coming up, and ripping people to pieces.
You're safe now… it's over.
No. It never ends. No matter how many times I fucking want to go back to square one, to crawl into a little hole inside myself and let this thing take over, it never happens. Something always pulls back from the edge. Memories fail me, and like so many other days, the sun is rising in the west, and the clock counts down from zero.
They keep making me change. Every time death is coming close, I'm changed to suit the world better. My mind breaks and molds to fit their new sculpt, the pièce de résistance of their new exhibition. Memories and histories rewritten, until nothing remains of where they started but a name. And I don't know what my name is.


Halloween is a special time in Sloth's Pit. It is the time that creatures of the night walk in the day, and the legends of the world dance.

The Eight Rings was the biggest- and the only- night club in the town of Sloth's Pit. It was named after the grove it was built on, which got the name due to the fact that eight fairy rings dotted the grove, forming an almost perfect circle, or rather, an octogram. Now, the Eight Rings was famous for three things: their mozzarella sticks, the abundant amounts of ecstasy, and their Halloween parties.
It was for this reason that the man clad in black was going here. He sucked on his tobacco pipe, his fedora concealing his features, and his long, black coat trailing down to his feet. This, however, was not his costume; the man in black had decided to go as himself, and would be meeting with several others who were doing the same. It was time for the yearly Dance.
A loud hum rang in the man's ears as he pushed through the door of the nightclub, the pseudo-techno beat of the music pounding in his ears. He took off his coat, revealing a rather classy-looking black suit, with a red shirt and black bowtie. Taking off his hat, the stranger revealed the mask that was his face: the head of a goat, with short horns and yellow eyes with hourglass pupils.
The Goatman had arrived.

Halloween is the time of year that the legends are strongest. It's not for the reason you think; it's not because of some witch's sabbath or the worlds of magic and reality coming together. It's because that, at Halloween, the most stories are told, and the imagination of the town is the most active.

The Eight Rings was full of costumed patrons. Most of them were generic; crappy vampire fangs, a bad witch's hat, a werewolf mask that one could barely breathe through, or an ironically immature "adult" costume. A few people had actually bothered, though; a Harry Potter was there with a Ginny Weasley, both wearing handmade robes and custom-crafted wands. In the corner, Slenderman towered over the crowd, lifting up his face occasionally so he could eat some fried cheese. There was even a woman there dressed as a satyr, which made the Goatman smile; not the same species, but close enough.
"All right, Humbug," said the Goatman, walking through the club and apparently talking to himself, "Where is everyone?"
Hooky is near the bar along with The Lizardman, said the Hum, a phantom noise that, at the moment, only he could hear. Sinning Jessie is with one of the Gallows Ghosts in one of the booths. And the King of Knives is…
"Boo." The Goatman spun around to face a man wearing a rather nasty Chelsea grin, revealing decaying teeth, his body adorned with several bandoliers and knives, all spattered in blood. The King of Knives had been the favored boogieman in Sloth's Pit since the 1890's, when the murderer Joseph Macek was hung. The King was the Legend of Macek given form, and would slaughter children in their sleep if they were naughty. He was now largely a campfire story, like most of the Legends of Sloth's Pit.
"Hello, Joseph. Staying out of trouble, I hope?" The Goatman continued chewing on his pipe; like everywhere else in this town nowadays, the Eight Rings was non-smoking, excepting a room in the back.
"Yes, yes, yes. Ol' Joe is behavin'. Not killed in a while." He nodded furiously, and took the Goatman's arm. "Comeon. Sebastian and Lovebird are waitin'." He dragged the Goatman over to the bar.
"Hey, Goats!" Sebastian, the Hook-handed man, raised his stump of a hand towards him; said stump was currently covered by a fake pirate hook. "I read about you in the papers a few months back! I thought the Plastic Fanatics woulda caught ya for sure!"
The Goatman snorted. "The Fanatics couldn't catch a Hodag with its feet tied in an empty room." He pulled himself up the the bar, sitting next to Lovebird, one of the few lizardmen that still inhabited this town. "How're you holding up, then, L.B.?"
"It'sssss difficult," hissed the reptile being. "Jussst look at me. I look more man than lizard now." And indeed, he did; he looked like a human that was simply covered in scales, as if he had some kind of bizarre medical condition or was wearing full-body makeup that made it look like he had one.
"How many are here?" asked Macek, toying with one of his rather anachronistic combat knives, which earned him a look of disdain from Dracula the Bartender. "All of us is four…"
"Jessie and one of the ghosts are here, according to Humbug," the Goatman pointed at thin air. "So that's six. The Hum makes seven…" He frowned. "We need one more."
"Where are we going to get one more?" asked Sebastian, fiddling with his hook. "Eight of us have to dance, and last I checked, the only viable candidate is the Melonheads. They aren't allowed in because they look like kids!"
"They're older than me," grumbled the Goatman, with an almost bitter note to his voice. "We'll worry about it in a bit. For now… I'm thirsty. Bartender, a mojito please." Dracula the Bartender didn't even bother to card the Goatman, and mixed him the drink.
We could always ask Mary, chimed the Hum, which caused all the assembled legends to groan. What? She's one of us.
"Bloody Mary is not an option," Sebastian stated firmly, tapping his hook against the bar. "Unless you're talking about the drink, in which case, I'm all for it."
Lovebird nodded in assent. "Sssshe tried to break into one of the sssschools in town. Sssssome dumb third grader sssssaid her name in the bathroom."
"Really?" said the Goatman, looking up from his drink. "What happened?"
"The Fanaticssss had to be called in," said Lovebird. "A kid wasss maimed, but they're all right now. Mary'sss back in the mirrors." The lizard shook his head. "Sssso, no. Mary is a last resssort, at bessst. We ssstill have a while until midnight, anyway…"

The shadow in the alley could be the King of Knives about to jump out at you just as easily as it could be a stray cat. The people in the town's square in period garb could be real, or they could be one of the several Gallows Ghosts. Is that really the TV you heard in the bathroom, or was Bloody Mary whispering at you to let her out of your mirror?

The Goatman eventually wandered away from the bar, over to the booth where Jessie and the Ghost were. The ghost, he saw, was that of a woman, probably hung for theft; she waved at the Goatman silently, getting up to join the rest of the Legends at the bar. He sat down next to Sinning- or was it Singing?- Jessie. "Jessica."
"Capricorn." The Goatman frowned; he really did hate that nickname. "How goes it?" Jessie sounded almost… bitter. The Goatman couldn't blame her; having your legend decay was a painful experience.
"It goes, it goes." He shook his head. "Humbug told me about your… dilemma. You have my condolences."
Jessie turned away, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. She was supposed to be wearing a costume that made her look like a lady of the night circa 1880 or so, but now, she looked… bland. She was wearing a costume that made her look like a simple, generic ghost; blood around the mouth, a tattered wedding dress, and hair that looked like it was billowing in the breeze.
"Singing Jessie. Singing." She sniffed. "I'm not a god-damn banshee, Goats. That's what they're reimagining me as, you know. A forebearer of death. I used to be the fear of sex itself; bed me and you would get your dick eaten." She rubbed her face. "Now I'm just another spook in the night." The Goatman put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Legends change, Jessica. You, Joseph and Sebastian should consider yourselves lucky; at least you still have your stories told."
Jessica sighed, rubbing an eye."I want my old legend back. Sebastian is at least published, and Macek is based on an actual person. Me? I'm a story conjured up to try and get people to stop buying sex." She leaned against the Goatman and sighed dramatically. "I just hope I remember when I was like that after… after I've changed."
"Jessica… I truly am sorry." He awkwardly wrapped his arms around Jessica in a hug, which she returned, before pulling away. "…have you picked out a dance partner for tonight?"

At midnight on Halloween, the monsters of the town assemble at the Grove of the Eight Rings and each stand in one of the rings. Then, they start their dance. They say you can find them all dancing in peace in the grove, their differences forgotten. If a human is to enter the grove, then they will be freely admitted into the dance, and awake in the middle of the woods, reborn as a monster.

"For the last time," said the Goatman to the Hum, "we are not calling Bloody Mary." The Goatman had withdrawn into the bathroom of the Eight Rings, which was empty except for the "werewolf" in the corner, who was probably tripping balls.
It'll even it out, though, mumbled the Hum. I'm genderless, Jessica and the Ghost are both women… and the dance starts in 15 minutes! We don't have a choice.
"What about the werefrogs?" asked the Goatman. "Or-or the Queen of the Hoop Snakes? She's in town, right?"
Left yesterday, sighed the Hum. Come on. I'll get rid of the day tripper over there, and you call her. With that, the Hum started talking to the fake werewolf, and the Goatman shut off the lights in the bathroom, looking in one of the cracked mirrors.
"Bloody Mary," he intoned once. "Bloody Mary." Twice. "Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary!" A ghost leaped from the mirror, screaming at the Goatman, all covered in dripping blood, her hair ragged and ruffled. She couldn't have been more than 16 when she died in front of her mirror, but here she was… Bloody Mary Thompson.
"Oh ho ho. The Goatman of Sloth's Pit." Bloody Mary stepped out of the mirror and onto the tile floor, grinning. "What is it you want, hmm? Do you finally want to overthrow the influence of the Plasti-"
"The Dance is tonight, Mary." The Goatman stamped his hoof. "We need an eighth. You're the only one we can contact. So cut the spooky nonsense for one night and dance."
The ghostly girl grinned. "Very well then. For the sake of your silly tradition, I shall dance. Tell me, whom will I be dancing with?"
The Goatman thought for a moment, before deciding.
"The King of Knives is in need of a partner. I daresay the two of you suit each other quite well. Just… don't get any blood on the dance floor." As he said this, Bloody Mary seemed to transform; she was now wearing a bright red witch's outfit, complete with stereotypical hat and a broomstick. "…what an appropriate choice… but I would replace the "w" with a "b"."
Bloody Mary stuck her tongue out at him. "Happy Halloween, Goatman." She cackled, and walked out of the restroom, the Goatman following after.

The monsters dance their dance until dawn. Nobody knows why the monsters and myths dance, only the monsters know. It happens every year; maybe you, too, will see the Monsters dance in the woods of Wisconsin.

It was midnight. The DJ, who had dressed himself to look like a zombie, put on Danse Macabre. It was a cliche song choice, but rather appropriate. With that, as with every year, the dance floor cleared. Nobody knew why the dance floor was cleared at midnight, and why only seven people were ever on it during this time; it was just club tradition.
Seven people that were visible, and an eighth that wasn't but was omnipresent, partnered up and began waltzing. The witch with the psychopath, the goat with the girl, the hook-handed man with the ghost, and the lizard man seemingly danced alone. Halfway through the song, they began speaking.
"Now we dance the dance of tales," said the males, looking at their partners, or in Lovebird's case, at thin air.
"So we may be told again," replied the females, as well as the hum, who was audible to all. The newcomers in the audience looked around, confused at the origin of the humming voice.
"For our beings to survive…"
"Our stories must never end."
"Wonder-born by word of mouth-"
"As the ageless stars do soar-"
"May you stand the tides of time-"
"And remain forevermore," said all of the Legends in unison, turning towards the entrance of the Eight Rings. They raised their hands, hooked their arms, and exited with their partners in a precession, the audience applauding, some of them confused.
Outside the club, the Legends all looked at each other, and bowed. Bloody Mary, her purpose spent, disappeared to the space behind mirrors from whence she came. Sebastian, the Hook-handed man, and Joseph, King of Knives, went off into the woods. The Goatman walked with Sinning/Singing Jessie, while Lovebird the Lizardman dove into the sewer grate near the nightclub. The Gallows Ghost simply vanished, while the Hum kept humming.
"Capricorn," Jessica looked at the Goatman. "Do you think the dance really does anything?"
"I don't know," the Goatman admitted. "My father always said that the dance was vital to our survival. He did it every year with some of the other Legends that were around back then. Just like grandad did before him." He shook his head mournfully, and then looked at Jessie, a smile crossing his face. "It at least raises morale. I mean, just look at yourself."
Sinning Jessie looked down at her clothing; they had gone from being tattered, ethereal rags to a rather scandalous dress. Well, scandalous if you lived back in the 1800s. Bright red, with a purple sash around the middle, and a corset visible underneath the ensemble. She gasped. "…how long will it last?"
The Goatman shrugged. "Probably a night or two. Enjoy it the best you can." He shook his head, patting Jessica on the shoulder. "Happy Halloween, Sinning Jessie."
"Happy Halloween to you, Goatman." The Goatman turned, lighting his pipe and walking off into the woods.
"See you next year?"
"Sooner, if I can help it!" The Goatman disappeared into the darkness of the morning of All Hallow's Day.

|Hub|


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Agent Jurgen Crayne tried to make as little noise as possible. Right around the corner from where he crouched sat a 6 year-old, playing with her dolls. Her parents had, unbeknownst to her, already been removed from the house, a house that had by then already been warped beyond recognition.
His thoughts replayed every retrieval mission he'd ever participated in. There'd been gruesome sights, there'd been sanity-blasting weirdness, but there'd never been unbearable cuteness.
"And then the king came in and saw the princess kissing the boy who washed the pigs," the girl said giggling and added in as gruff a voice she could manage, "YOU THERE! PIG BOY!"
"Oh no! It's the king!" she squeaked and mimed one of the dolls trying to flee the scene.
Crayne only heard her, but he was trying to figure out how to approach this. He didn't look his best, to say the least, and this was her turf. Even if she didn't immediately scream her lungs out, her abilities might instinctively affect him. And who knew what'd happen then. He might turn into a prince, although an ogre was more likely. Hell, he might even turn into a damn coach horse. Or a pumpkin. His strange sense of humor made him chuckle at the image of a pumpkin swearing like a boozed-out sailor in heat.
She must have heard him, because a frightened voice asked who was there.
And then he had two choices. He could ignore the question, hope she wouldn't come looking, and wait for a better opportunity to approach, or he could answer it. Only time would tell what the better option was, but he chose regardless.
"It's just me, a peasant from the fields," and after a moment's hesitation he added, "your highness."
He sincerely hoped he wouldn't be spending the remainder of his life as a misanthropic vegetable.
There was no reply for a precious few seconds, during which Crayne's bladder contemplated preemptively releasing its burden.
"I have soldiers," came a fearful little voice.
I don't doubt you do, thought Crayne.
"I'm just a farmer, I would never hurt you, princess."
A giggle was his answer.
"Come here, farmboy."
Crayne swallowed hard, made sure to put his gun down on the ground, and then showed his face around the corner.
"Here I am, princess," he said and slowly moved into view. He held out his hands, palms up and waited. Crayne tried, but failed to ignore that his jeans and nondescript red t-shirt had somehow changed into a burlap sack. It itched.
She had long blonde hair, bright green eyes, and was sitting in the middle of what must have once been a bedroom. Its walls had been transformed from wallpapered drywall into coarse stone mortar work. In glancing, he noted the stones were uniform and featureless. The one window had lost its glass and showed a view of rolling hills, sprawling forests and even a distant shoreline. All perfect storybook material. He knew that out in the real world, his colleagues were staring up at that window.

Anderson comforted the mother, following protocol as the amnestic began to take hold. He repeated back the cover story Planning and Control had issued him. Her daughter had tragically fallen down the stairs when she'd tried to go downstairs after an afternoon nap, and broken her neck. Her wails cut through him like a knife, but he kept his voice level and went on to explain that her daughter would be buried next Tuesday in a nice, quiet affair. It really was all for the best.

Crayne hesitated and then curtsied, his lack of interest in medieval etiquette showing.
"Milady. I have come to tell you that we need to flee the castle. A dragon is coming."
He regretted his hastily chosen words the moment they'd left his mouth. When he got back, he'd probably be locked in a room with the manual on child reality benders.
"A DRAGON?!" she shrieked and Crayne immediately heard the sound of a bedsheet hung out to dry, flapping in the wind.
Okay, that was fucking stupid, he thought and wished he had brought his gun. Wouldn't have done me much good anyway. It'd probably have been turned into a goddamn pitchfork.
"We can run, princess. The queen is somewhere safe already, but we need to go now," he said, hoping he'd put enough urgency into his voice.
The girl looked up at him and he saw something behind that gaze.
"Where's my mommy?" she asked and nearly cried.
Crayne noticed a slight movement ripple through the walls, the return to mundane subjects having a direct effect on her surroundings.
"Mommy's fine, Lily. I can take you to her right now, before the dragon gets here."
A roar sounded. It was…cartoony. He'd heard plenty of roars in his time, usually right before someone got bitten in half by some godforsaken mutated thing with too many teeth. That thing out there, beyond the window, might be in his league. Then again, it might not. He wasn't about to take the chance.
Now genuinely frightened by what her own subconscious had served up, she looked up at him expectantly.
Crayne stuck out his hand and bowed once more. "I'll help you escape the castle. We'll go beyond the gate to your mom, princess Lily."
That at least got a little giggle again. Another roar sounded, closer this time. She cringed and took his hand.
That flapping was beginning to get on his nerves.
"Okay then, but you have to promise," she implored.
"Promise what, princess?"
"Promise me that you'll kill the dragon," she whispered anxiously.
"I will, princess. I will," he said as he quickly administered a dose of sedative.
And the roar was no more.


They ate in silence, politely ignoring each other. The Doctor was busy writing away at a pad, so engrossed in his work he was hardly noticing what he was actually eating. The Research Assistant was silently contemplating suicide for the third time that morning. The cafeteria around them was humming away in that persistently soft buzz from the industrial ovens, freezers and hot plates.
“It's interesting,” began the Doctor, crossing out a detailed equation and moving on to destroy the very basis of his entire theorem. As a silence lingered the Research Assistant felt his forehead crease in slight annoyance.
“What is?” he replied, attempting to keep his voice smooth and cool. He did not mind working on the SCP as it was relatively harmless. (It wouldn't stop him thinking about killing himself.) He did not mind the other Assistants, Doctors and the Agents that always made him feel a guilty squirming sensation in his stomach. (The thought wouldn't go away, it chained itself to him.) But he often found the company of Dr. Wakefield to be infuriating. He wasn't sure why.
“Mmm?” the older man asked, glancing behind the spectacles perched on his nose.
The Assistant held in the sigh. “You said something was interesting?”
“Ah. I did, did I?” Wakefield quizzically inquired, placing his pen down. The fork was soon laid with it, so that both hands could create a flat plain for a chin to rest upon. “Oh I did. Yes.” Another pause. Being examined was much worse than sitting in studious silence, the Assistant realised. “I was just thinking about the Unified Anomaly Theory. You are familiar with it?”
The Assistant nodded his head, non-committally. “The idea that all Skips are related, no matter how differing their anomalous properties are.” Dr. Wakefield gave him a condescending smile like he was a tutor. The urge of self-annihilation in the Research Assistant shifted towards a rapid dislike of where this conversation was going.
“Correct, a text book answer, the one I was exactly expecting in fact. It would connect some of the more outlandish SCPs with the safer items. Like that hammer we worked on that refused to ever hit the nail it was aimed it. Some believe the U.A.T. might be a sort of calculable mistake in the laws of physics that spawns the occasional error and inconsistency. I find it interesting that no one has considered…” He pauses, his nasty habit, almost hesitant to continue.
“Go on,” the Research Assistant prompts, prodding at his salad with a fork. He didn't feel very hungry, there was a vice like grip in his stomach and he could not yet identify the cause.
“Well, there has been some research into the idea of a collective subconscious. The collective subconscious I mean in this sense is the idea that humanity is somehow telepathically linked, like a network of wireless routers. These studies suggested this interconnectedness influences more of our behaviour then might necessarily be expected. For example, if you'll excuse the paraphrasing, when a group of people were told to solve crossword puzzles for a month they scored on average with the population until a day old newspaper was supplied. After that, they scored considerably higher than average.”
The Research Assistant felt a pain behind his eyes. A migraine coming on? Possibly. But if he ever wanted a promotion it was good to keep soldiering on. Maybe he had a bit of a masochistic streak. “What does this have to do with the Unified Anomaly Theory, Dr. Wakefield?”
“I find the idea, pseudo-scientific as it is, to fit neatly into what our current understanding of SCPs. Imagine a billion minds all broadcasting together at once, all sharing dreams and hopes and love and anger. Imagine if those minds had the slightest effects on the reality around them.” He smiled wryly. “We already know of a select, special few that can personally do so, but perhaps they have more access to this power than the rest of us.” He picked up his pen once more and began to draw, a small circle that was quickly filled with familiar landmasses. Another habit, the doodling. “All of that thought, turning and turning, focused so ferociously on survival that we become scared of our own shadows. The bogeymen under our bed. The creaks as the house settles. It would be less that the SCPs are a cause (as many of them like to claim,) but rather an effect. This could unify the differing religious anomalies as desperate minds scrabbling to describe a metaphysical entity for comfort. It also throws up even more interesting questions about those far more disturbing monsters and oddities we continue to make.”
The Research Assistant closed his eyes and ground his palms against them, the façade dropping. Lights were blossoming in his optic nerves like a fireworks display. “So you're- You're saying its all self inflicted?” The pain behind his eyes was worse. Drops of something were running down his cheeks. Tears? No. Too thick. Too viscous.
Dr. Wakefield made a small note, watching the Research Assistant. “Your eyeballs are melting.” It was a strange sentence to hear. It must have been even stranger to say but there was no denying it. A sticky, tarry substance hit his own lip and the taste of it was comparable to a kick in the teeth.
“It was always puzzling to my colleagues and myself about where you actually came from. It was a small thing to notice at first because the team's resources had been stretched so thin. Why would we not want, nay deserve an extra pair of hands? But you were too good at your job and not perfect enough, you have to understand.” Wakefield continued to talk. He hadn't moved to alert medical staff yet, called for help. For this the Assistant hated him. “No? Am I being unclear? Well, we never even gave you a name. How can a team of scientists dream up a person and fail to name him, I ask you?”
“I. I don't.” The fluid was getting into his nose. No, it was his nose, his nose was melting. His tongue felt swollen. The thick, black, foul tasting mess was dripping from the roof of his mouth and flooding his sinuses. It splattered on the table in front of them when he tried to talk. “I don't know.”
“You have a mild memetic effect, I believe. Why should we question the helpful young man with an unassuming demeanour? The weight of evidence rests on us to make you seem strange and out of place, not the other way around, surely? I took an interest when your mood began to drop. I've often been told I get far too interested in the well being of my staff, but you were a promising young man that would have had quite the future in the Foundation. If you had ever existed, of course.”
His teeth were melting. They were running out onto his plate as the illusion of life was politely undone before his eyes. The fork in his hand clattered to the floor as the Research Assistant groaned through lungs rapidly turning into slush.
“I am very sorry. You mined us too well for an identity. We expected you to break under the pressure, to feel the toll an older man feels." There was the sound of actual regret in his voice. The Assistant without a name hated everything about that voice. "I suspected something like this would happen when it was brought to your attention. The more you come to understand your own condition the less you can maintain it, perhaps? However I have a feeling that unless someone actively holds belief in you, you'll cease to exist. The other members of the lab volunteered for Class-B Amnestics and well, I drew the short straw and had to disbelieve. It's much easier without your facial features."
The thing that had once been a human that had once been an Assistant in Research could no longer support its head very well. It could not see. Its skin was peeling away in great valleys and chasms. "I have to ask, before you cease to be… A simple nod or shake of the head will suffice. But when we blink, when we close our eyes, do you exist?"
The Assistant tried to stand so he could get help. The bones in his legs, his hips and his back were gone. His arms wetly snapped in half, his torso landing like a overturned oil barrel on the cafeteria table. He retched pathetically, choking in his own gore while begging for some sort of life. Before he returned back to being nothing (oh god the nothing oh god not the nothing again it was coming for him it was going to be him he was going to be it oh god oh god oh god) he only had one true regret.
He'd never get to be a part of the Peer Review for Dr. Wakefield's paper.


Summary of Evidence from Recovery Site V2008-5
Day 14
I think it is important to provide context, so future generations may recognize the urgency of my endeavor.
In 1916, I enlisted into His Majesty's 5th Infantry Division, and in the bloody trenches of Europe I witnessed proof of humanity's barbarism and the absence of God. Wounded in battle and wallowing in septic mud, the fever fell upon me, and with it came the visions.
In my nightmares I saw a great iron worm, with jaws like that of a dragon, devouring the fields of Europe. It had no teeth, but masses of grinding gears that tore flesh and stone to pulp. Its voice was the roar of falling artillery, its breath the blistering poison of mustard gas. Damned souls were belched into a starless sky like smoke, lost into a cold, indifferent void.
I have no memory of my conscious actions during that time, but at last I found myself in a hospital in London. They told me the war was over, but the dreams did not leave. I would wake in a cold sweat, filled with purpose. Hastily I scribbled down designs that had been burned into my mind, strange and alien architectures I did not recognize or understand.
Finally I returned home to my wife and children. Brave Simon and little Simone were a welcome escape from my fear, but my wife Clarice took notice. "Shellshock," she called it, the word on the lips of every veteran's wife or mother. I tried to explain my visions, what instilled such fear in me, but she recoiled as if I were a mere madman. If only that were the case.
The children heeded my warnings, however. They were rightly afraid, yet that was not my intent. No, Simon, do not fear the beast. No Simone, please do not cry.
Father will not let you be fed to the worm.
The schematics! They must be the secret to stopping the worm. I feel a connection, a familiarity that likens them unto a great metal snare.
With them I will cage the beast.
Day 825
So long, so long in my workshops. So long in the belly of my father's home, free from prying eyes. Working, ever building. My wife questions but refuses to listen. Only the children heed. Only Simon understands. A finer son no father could want.
My family's wealth is modest, but the urgency that gives energy to my limbs also guides my thoughts. Through clever accounting I can take advantage of the working class' desperation. So many seek work, an honest day's wages, that they do not question my motives. Some even show curiosity, enthralled by my designs. A work Leonardo himself would envy, they say. We are more than employer and laborer, we are a growing congregation, seers who know the truth.
With the enlightened to spur the others forward, we make excellent time. They build and forge, dig and reinforce, laying pipes and wrapping conductors in rubber. On the surface, they speak of a Great Depression, of economic and social despair. Below, I lay the foundation of a greater tomorrow. But I smell the burning breath of the worm. It is close. We must hurry.
Day 2,398
I have seen the puppet of the worm. A puffy Austrian who commands power from the desperate and in their despair they hurl themselves into the grinding teeth of the worm and call themselves masters of a thousand years. I see his face in the newspapers and scream at his empty, hateful eyes, but no one listens! No one SEES!
The nightmares have changed. Now there are more than mere soldiers on an apostate battlefield, now there are prisons. Camps of men and women and children, their flesh shriveled by cruelty and neglect. The worm feeds on them, and their souls are so weak they cannot even flee into the heaven-less sky.
I fear for them, but I fear for my own children even more. In my dreams, I hear them crying on the battlefield. They call out for god, for their mother, for their father.
Only I can answer.
Day 2,567
Tonight.
The vision came. I saw the worm, eating the rotten flesh of a dead world! The stars had burned out, the sun bled into blackness, until the only light was but a flickering candle, a torch held against oblivion. No Christian God holds that torch, no pagan worship, no politician or priest.
I hold the torch.
I stand within the snare, built of the iron of the earth and the blood of man, and I bait the worm to its doom!
Day 2,568
SUCCESS! THE WORM IS TRAPPED!
Day 2,569
My victory was short-sighted. The worm is caged but it has already unleashed its plague upon us. The bombs fall upon London. War rages once more. The worm cries out from below, mocking me even as it thrashes within its cage. This world is doomed.
The work crews fear it, or maybe they fear me? Some want to leave, to fight another pointless war for their homeland. Others stand behind me, terrified of what comes for us. How… how..? How can we escape this rotting world and the locusts that devour it?
Day 2,569
I finally understand the purpose of my great machine. Not a cage. An engine. A device that dwarfs all measure of man's science, Satan's magic and God's miracles. A machine that will deliver us from oblivion! All it needed was a heart! A burning furnace to power it! How ironic, that the worm that promised my doom is now the engine that will drive our salvation!
The laborers who heeded my warnings have banded with me. Like a cult to its messiah they gathered at my feet, and as a dutiful shepherd I will guide them to paradise.
Some resisted. I do not hate them.
I do not hate the people of this ruined world.
I pity them.
It was all I could do to instruct my followers that a merciful death is preferable to the alternative. Those who would not come with us were better off sent away by their kin than by some heartless enemy on the battlefield.
I go to throw the switch of my great machine, and free ourselves from the madness of the grave.
Day 2,570 Day 1
In one brilliant flash, my engine and the manor above have been delivered from the war-torn earth to a new world. This place is like our own, but different in many ways. A gray mist swirls around the manor, free of the stink of gunpowder and urban decay. The manor sits in a field of grey soil devoid of vegetation. I hear no buzzing of insects. I see no sun or moon, just a dull, sourceless light.
A dismal arrival, perhaps, but a welcome one. I broke wine with my brothers and sisters. Today we are saved.
The engine has gone quiet now. The worm must have been consumed by its own fire. Some merciful part of my soul, so flushed with victory and new hope, prays the worm is at peace.
Day 2
Where on earth there would be day and night, here the light never changes. The gray mist lingers, muting all sound. My followers look to me for answers. They say I am the Voice of the engine, surely I must know what to do. I push for patience and make promises I already begin to doubt myself. To satisfy their curiosity, I asked three of my bravest to venture out in search of… anything.
I try to reassure my family, but Clarice looks at me only with fear and hate. She has walled herself up in the bedrooms with Simone. Simon stays with me though. He wishes to go out to see this new world. I refuse him. I will not threaten his life for the sake of knowledge.
Even as I write these words, I am startled by what I see. This world was to be our safe haven, was it not?
Day 3
The men I sent into the mist have returned, thanks to the lengths of string I provided them. No vegetation, no animals, no sun or stars, no civilization. This world is empty and grey. Not hell, like the world we left behind. A limbo.
Does that make it better?
Day 4
The dreams no longer come. Where before I could scarcely close my eyes without envisioning arcane machinery and prophecies of doom, now my mind is empty, and the silence mocks me. The food stores are being rationed. I do everything I can to convince the followers that utopia will come, that this is just a transition, but empty stomachs speak with more conviction than a prophet without a prophecy. A nurse named Eudora seems to have taken it upon herself to stir the hearts of the following, but her sermons cut short as I approach, and she regards me with stony silence until I withdraw.
Day 5
My wife refuses to leave the bedrooms. She does not speak to me, ignores the food I leave for her. I call for Simone but they do not come out. How I have come to hate my wife. Her spite will not save us.
Two of the younger followers attempted to steal food from the kitchens. They talk of dwindling food stores, of mistrust, of strange noises coming from below, though my great engine no longer turns. If we imprisoned them, the others would have protested. Instead, I go to the others, and tell them the young ones have run out in to the fog, intend to find answers. Not everyone believes me, including Eudora. Instead they go back to plotting in quiet.
I worry for my flock.
Day 6
Now everyone speaks of sounds from below, of rattling pipes and grinding gears, though I assure them the machine has been shut off. To assuage their fears, I sent Danvers and Burtleby to investigate. We should hear back from them sometime later tonight. Or morning.
No one questioned the fresh meat prepared for dinner.
Day 7
My wife is dead. I grew furious at her petulance, and pried open the doors with a pickaxe. She had arranged Simone for bed and then-
Damn you, Clarice. You rotten whore. I wanted to SAVE my children.
Danvers and Burtleby have not come up. The grinding noises come every hour now, louder and louder. The house shakes around us.
I fear the worm may not be as dead as I hoped.
Day 8
Darkness has finally fallen, and with it came a terror I have never known, even in the trenches. Cold seeps in through the windows. Strange shadows move in the fog, and I hear what sound like footsteps on the rooftop. The house groans and shakes. The worm struggles.
The courage of my followers frays. They want to go home, they want to be free of this horror and this damnable grey purgatory.
Day 9
They have taken Simon. Eudora rallied the followers. She declared that the worm spoke to her to her dreams and that she is the Voice now. The worm demands sacrifice, she said: The son of the man who trapped it.
I fought them. I fought. I would not let them take my boy, the only thing I have left, but they were many, and they had gorged on the flesh of their fellows. I was but one broken man. I am no savior, no torch in the darkness, just a puppet to my own madness. I feel that every action I have taken, every vision and design I feverishly scrawled from half-remembered nightmares, was forced upon me by a cruel intellect that wished to test the limits of my sanity.
They have taken Simon below. They will feed him to the worm. Let this be my prayer to the starless night, to a god that may not even exist: I will not let him be fed to the worm. I will hurl myself into its teeth, that my bones might clog its innards, before I let them take my son.
I'm sorry Clarice.
Day 10
God, the noise! It is almost deafening. Wheels turn and pistons hiss, and from the deepest reaches I hear a low, mournful bellow.
I have brought my journal, to give my mind something to focus on as I traverse the machine. Looking upon it with my sane eyes, I realize this maze is no work of logic. The tunnels bend and twist without reason, stairwells lead to solid walls and doors open to gaping chasms. The transference to this grey world may have warped the machine, or maybe I never truly saw it for what it was, and just built according to my deranged whims.
I have heard and seen nothing of Simon or his captors. Doubtless their steps are guided by the same madness that has abandoned me, guiding them with fluid ease towards the worm's waiting jaws. I hasten my step, but I seem to be running in blind circles. If nothing else, at least I have a sturdy lantern and plenty of oil from the work crews that toiled down here.
Day 11
Day and night are meaningless in this limbo, but down here there is even less to measure the passage of time. My journey has taken me deeper, into some kind of processing factory. These automated devices gather grey sand from the bare rock, heat it into a sickly-looking glass, and fill the created vials with foul-smelling chemicals I cannot identify. Against my better judgment I crept close to inspect a completed vial, and to my horror a fully-formed set of teeth began to take form. Another jar held an eyeball like nothing found in man or nature. What is the purpose of this factory? What does it build and for whom? Is this the result of my design, or some mechanical cancer, spread by the worm to twist the machine's function?
My quarry seems to be in dispute now. I hear them arguing through the ventilation ducts and empty pipes. Eudora has taken my son deeper, leaving the others behind to harass my progress or simply abandoning to the whims of the worm. I have my pickaxe and my training, but I must move with stealth. I have not eaten in nearly two days. Still, Eudora's men still carry strips of meat…
I also saw something odd near the lathe room I have hidden myself within. A painting of exquisite taste. It is the work of a master, but I cannot recall when I purchased it or what possessed me to leave it down here. The image shares a remarkable likeness to Clarice, smiling as though in happier times. It casts my thoughts to decades past when I was a different man, a smaller man, yet infinitely happier.
Can knowledge so damn a soul? In a universe of such cosmic evils that I have witnessed, is ignorance truly the only bliss one can enjoy?
Day 12
My dreams returned, not of prophecy but memory. I am with Simon in the London Museum. He pulls me along, eager to see art and history, the beauty of all created by man and God. But I cannot see the beauty. I see only bloody mud and blackened skies, the ugliness of man and a callous God. Simon walks on with out me while I sink into a bench. The day fades away to night, and I sit in an empty museum of man's atrocities, the last living thing on a cold earth, overwhelmed by the weight of it all.
I wait for death or oblivion to take me, whichever could stomach so pitiful a morsel. But instead I feel the presence of another. I feel no light from this being, no warmth, yet I sensed that this was as close to God as any being could be. It looks like a man, but there is a weight to him, as though something greater, and stranger, were squeezed into his skin.
"The child wants, and doesn't know why," the gentleman speaks to me. "The child grasps, and doesn't know the danger. They burn their fingers and know they are not ready. Someday they will be. Someday they will give voice to the soul and sing with the essence of the universe. What gods they will be then. What galaxies they will weave with dreams and care. But now they are children, and children are selfish. They know only what they want."
And then I awoke back inside this machine, on a grey planet. So far from the world of my memories. It burdens my bones just to think of the inevitability. But I forced myself to stand just the same.
Simon cried out to me, I heard him far below. I called back to him but I heard no reply. Eudora's zealots hound me relentlessly, and I fear some horrible change has come over them in casting their lot with the worm. They speak with slurred, reptilian voices, or gargle as though choking. Some have even turned on their fellows. As I crept about the darkness I saw one such rebellion. A man I had tried to lead to paradise fell upon his companion in an argument over faith, and I felt the heat of his lifeblood splash across my astonished face. The teeth! Gnashing and ripping, so big and sharp, like the fangs of a wolf, yet also serrated as the blade of a saw. Animal and flesh, yet also machine.
My surroundings have been affected by the same mutation. Rooms I do not recognize bleed into one another like spilled paint. An office with plush green chairs merges with a warehouse filled with crates that rattle and bang with some unknown, stinking occupant. Ladders descend into pools of viscous liquid that have flooded what appears to be a school. Statues of marble and reliefs of brass decorate the ceilings and form the very walls. Rattling belts spew ammunition into neglected piles, shells the size of my head clatter to the floor in automated factories, producing the tools of death. I could not have made this! I could not have wanted such devices! And yet here they stand! And always the shrieking, the tapping of heating and cooling metals, the groan of pressurized hydraulics! I cannot remember what silence sounded like!
Day 13 or 14
Eudora's followers no longer heed reason. The demented growl and spit and scavenge for food, their ramblings the stuff of Bedlam. Others have become something… else. Feral, like the lycanthropes of myth. They crawl on all fours, their eyes adjusted to the gloom and shining red, twin pinpoints of demon light. I can startle them with my lantern, but they always return, trying to surround me from all sides. Hunters they are, and fast as wolves, but their howls are the shriek of tearing metal.
Eudora's voice taunts me now. It echoes up through the network of plumbing, from every open ventilation shaft. She announces her glorious ascendance, of her devotion to the worm, and I hear true lunacy in her desperate laughter. It ripples through this whole machine, as if she herself is a part of it.
I have found respite in a room filled with hospital beds, and windows that look out into an abyss. It reminds me of the hospital I awoke from the war within. But I must pry my eyes away from that dark, for my mind cannot tell if I look into lightless cavern, or starless void.
Day 15?
I have found Eudora. Pursued by her followers-made-monsters, I came upon a great cathedral made from organ pipes, marble, and the very flesh and bones of Eudora herself. Now I see how she could speak to me through the pipes, for her body has been torn asunder and stitched upon it. Her organs are pulled straight and taut though the tangled plumbing, her skin stretched and inflated with gases, her blood sizzling and steaming from the hydraulics. Only her head remains whole, wide-eyed and cackling, seated on the pulpit of this temple to dementia. The monsters refuse to set foot into this "hallowed ground," so I alone approached to speak with her.
I demanded my son's return, but she spat her own broken teeth at me and said he had been taken by the worm, delivered to the heart of the machine where its mouth sat waiting. Furious, I fell upon her with a vengeance, tearing what remained of her body from the brass organs around her. She died screaming, and at last was quiet.
But then a great bellow erupted from the machine, and a new voice spoke to me through the mangled organ.
"I am what you have made me. I am then and I am now. I am choice and I am tyranny. I am evil and I am flesh. I am beauty and I am chaos. I am the worm."
Stricken, I fell to the blood-stained floor and wept. I cowered, screaming, not because of the words it spoke.
But that they were spoken with my voice.
At last I beheld the truth I had tried to bury so deep. The worm, the machine, the madness that guided my hands. It was me.
I am the worm.
I do not know what compelled me to stand. I did not feel hope. I didn't feel despair. Like an automaton, I could only move forward to face revelation.
Day ??
When I came upon the core of my great machine, I found my son.
The machine was not a weapon to trap the worm. It was not an ark to carry us to salvation. I had sought to exile myself from a monstrous existence, and in my cowardice and fear, I became a monster. I became the worm. I built a shell to hide within. An engine to spirit me away from the pain, the despair that had claimed my sanity. To abandon creation and God's cold distance. But it would not run without a catalyst.
Simon.
So full of hope and faith, so full of love and dreams. How I envied your strength. How I envied your ignorance. I yearned to wrap myself up in that goodness and hide from the world. I threw the switch of my great machine, and it drank the heartsblood from your lifeless body, pumping it into every pipe and piston. I believed your love would carry us to paradise.
But it was tainted by my madness, by my act of murder. I dreamed of peace, and it brought me to unchanging limbo. I demanded paradise, but I deserve only perdition.
And I was so horrified by what I had done to you, I could not bear to face it. I spoke as if you were there with me, smiled as though I could see you smiling at me. When Clarice realized what I had done, what I was, she took Simone away before… before I sought her out as well.
This place is filled with your memories, Simon. Are they the last tattered shreds of love you have for me? Or are they here to taunt and punish me, as the man-beasts that stalk the hallways surely must be?
I do not know if any of you can forgive me. I only know that I promised to save my son. I promised to slay the worm. I leave this journal behind, in the hopes that someday, somehow, someone will know what I did, and remember the men and women I damned with my selfishness. My fear.
I hurl myself into its teeth
that my bones might clog its innards
I am the worm
and Ouroboros must eat itself