SYTYCFanon

The Site-78 Halloween Special
For more stories in my verse check here

Michaela Avalerra stood in her containment cell bathroom brushing her hair in the mirror. She thought it was a boon that unlike the classic vampire myths she still had her reflection. Avalerra didn't know how she'd take care of grooming without it. It had been a couple of months now since she was contained inside the SCP Foundation and slapped with a million different designations. They became as normal as her name.
Keter. Cernunnos. Vlam. Danger. Hemovore. All terms were used to describe her, never that she was snarky, sarcastic… or pretty. She felt that besides her teammates on MTF Omega-45 or her handler Researcher Maria Johnston, everyone in this facility thought of her as a tool to use. She didn't mind it all that much, her time on this earth was coming to an end.
SCP-7261-A they called it. Her need to consume the blood of a child aged 0-6. Johnston had sworn up and down she was working on a solution but nothing had born fruit. They gave her 1-2 years to live and every month she got weaker and weaker.
It hadn't compromised her abilities in the field, she could still punch through concrete and tear a man in half if need be. However, she could feel that she just wasn't the person she used to be before arriving. Not to mention the constant whisper in her skull to feed, something she fought hard to suppress.
She'd gotten to thinking about her mortality now that Dia De Los Muertos was approaching. She wondered what her family had thought had happened to her, most likely they assumed she was dead.
I probably have a few ofrendas built for me. Candles and flowers and whatever else. I hope my brother's is even more extravagant. A tear slid from her eye as painful memories started rushing back. The buzz of the intercom however drew her attention.
"Avalerra? Are you decent? I need to come in." The voice of Researcher Maria Johnston came from overhead.
Avalerra was fairly lax on that subject, especially after being contained by the Foundation. She was being watched 24/7 so she didn't think it mattered, she slept in this stuff usually. "Uh…. how decent are a tanktop and underwear?"
"Can you put pants on… at least?" Maria asked nicely.
"Yeah, I'll grab my sweats." Avalerra placed her brush drown, grabbed her embroidered "Omega-45" sweatpants, and put them on, struggling a bit to get the tight fabric over her decently sized bottom. She head out into her containment cell proper, as their sliding doors opened and Maria Johnston came in.
Avalerra smiled, figuring Johnston had some important mission for her. She was the only one who ever came to visit her in this lonely cell. "Ah Maria, what's on the docket today? Are we going after the Sepulchrum? What new undead anomaly do they have cooking up this time?"
"It's not the Sepulchrum… this time. It's more important than that."
More important than the Sepulchrum? Could it be… the Set of Nine? Avalerra thought, replying, "Did Chudley locate another book? Who has it? Valravn? I've been itching to test my mettle against a La Llorona."
Maria shook her head. "Nope, the Ravens aren't involved either. This is more pressing than that."
What is it then? Why is she being so vague? "Is it that Apollyon thing that I've heard people talking about? Did Chudley accidentally start a K- Class end of the whatever the hell scenario?"
Maria again shook her head, "End of the World scenario and it just might be the end of the world if we don't attend to this pressing matter."
"Which is….?"
Maria's stern expression quickly changed to that of jubilation. "Tomorrow is the Site-78 Halloween Party! And we need to get you a costume."
Avalerra was completely flabbergasted by Johnston's words, she didn't think a place like this did Halloween parties. Even still, she wasn't really down to participate. "…. I'll have to pass. I'm going to finish brushing my hair now."
"Wait a minute, why not? I thought you'd be happy to get out of this cell."
"Hmmm, why wouldn't I want to go to a Halloween party with all your friends… let's see here." Avalerra took a sniff. "I see you're still wearing that onion perfume. I see that even now that we've been through so much you're still afraid of me."
"Don't think I want to come in her smelling like Shrek's swamp! I put this on every day so I can come and see you. Would I put up smelling like this if I didn't care?"
Avalerra turned, she knew Johnston was being genuine; she could smell it but it didn't mean that she didn't feel hurt by it. "Everyone else in this place treats me like a monster… because I am one. I see the way they look at me when I walk the halls. I can't go anywhere in this place without an armed escort. I can hear them whispering about me, "that's the baby eater" they say."
"Don't listen to those low-clearance stooges. If they actually got to know you, I bet they wouldn't be like that."
Avalerra scoffed, "Regardless, I'm not in the mood to be a stage show freak especially not on days like this or Dia De Los Muertos or whatever. The vampire would like to stay in her coffin for these festivities, thank you very much."
"Avalerra don't be like this. Just do it for me… please? I promise nobody is going to call you a monster or whisper about you. It'll be fun."
"Why do you even want to go? This doesn't seem like a you thing." Avalerra questioned.
"I've always been big on Halloween, I've been dressing up since I was six, dressing up and pretending I was a hero. I guess I'm still doing that running around with you guys." Johnston chuckled, her voice brimming with sincerity.
Avalerra let out a deep exhale. She didn't want to do it but if she was being real with herself, it might just be the last fun thing she'll get to do. Her brother also was very fond of the holiday, so… maybe this would be a good way to honor him. "If I go." Avalerra started. "Is anyone going to call me SCP-7261-1?"
Maria seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, "Nobody will even recognize you by the time we're done. You'll be a completely different person tomorrow."
Avalerra turned, intrigued by her words. Honestly, the last person she wanted to be was herself. "What did you have in mind?"
/-/
Elsewhere…
October 31st, 2022. 5:00 PM. Chudley Residence.
The night of hallow's eve, Greg Chudley stood in his bathroom applying glue for the fake mustache to complete his cosplay, that of famous YouTuber Brian David Gilbert in his HIT video, "how to make jorts". It was the perfect costume as it was not only topical due to the incident that happened earlier that year but also funny. To him at least.
In true Chudley fashion, he didn't think or care if anyone involved in the incident would be offended or think he was being insensitive. To Chudley, it was worth doing as long as he found it funny.
As he was about to put the mustache on, he heard the Discord ringing sound coming from his phone on the counter and pressed the call button. It was one of the friends he met on League of Legends, Kitsukumi7015.
"What's up Kitsukumi? How was work?"
"Ugh, tiring." A female voice groaned from his phone.
"Bad client? Or was the contract shitty?" He didn't know what Kitsukumi did for a living other than she was a contractor of some sort. He didn't press her on it as he too couldn't say what his real job was.
"Nah it was just the work. Had to get these thugs out of this property. Damn squatters. One funny thing though is that they were these bumbling greek dudes in togas."
"Togas? Sounds like they were a real piece of work."
"Yeah but enough about me, how are you? Today is the day of your work party right?"
"Yep! The most exciting thing to happen in Chugwater all year. I wouldn't miss it for the world." Chudley's voice exuded excitement.
"It must suck living all the way out in the sticks for work. Although the place I live isn't really much better."
"It's not too bad, work keeps me decently busy. Do you have Halloween plans?"
"Never really celebrated it myself. Not something I had growing up in Japan."
"Ah gotcha, how about those internet trolls you were telling me about? You said they were calling your company some kinda Neo-Nazi group?"
"Yeah, I know it's fucking crazy. We just do security. I'm not even white for god sake!" Kitsukumi7015 sounded exasperated on the line.
"With a name like Kitsukumi you could have fooled me." He said sarcastically. "You're either Japanese or your mom was one of those quirky white girls who name their kids some dumb stuff. Like Xhessycka or Sequoia or some ungodly spelling of Caitlin."
"Oh she was a quirky white girl, my name is Abigail but like with six Bs and I you don't even want to know how the last syllable is spelled." Kitsukumi joked.
"I wouldn't let those dumb internet trolls get to you, man. They clearly have no idea what you or your group are about. " Chudley said, finishing applying his mustache before taking his phone back to his bedroom.
Chudley grabbed a ball from his dressed and proceeded to put it in his pocket. "Exactly," Kitsukumi responded. "What about work for you? Still working on super secret classified stuff?"
"Only the most super, but I can say…." Chudley tossed the phone on the bed as he reached for his shoes. He sighed and finished, "I just feel so overwhelmed with everything."
"Why is that?"
"Let's just say for everything that we archive away, more and more responsibility keeps getting put on me. I'm responsible for lives now, people look to me for direction. And I… I'm just not the leader type or a hero." Chudley said solemnly, for once his sarcastic facade breaking.
"I've never been in charge of anyone before but I've heard from my team leader that it's an incredibly straining job. You seem like a good man, Greg. I'm sure your job is happy to have you." A knocking is heard. "Oh that's my sisters, we're going out to Taco Bell. I hope you have fun at your party!"
"Enjoy the quesaritos, I've got a party to catch." Chudley hit the end call button as he stood up, shoelaces tied. He shook his head and tried to put it aside. It was party time.
/-/
Site-78, 5:30PM
"Can I open my eyes now?" Avalerra asked.
"Just one second…." Researcher Lena Lorri said, putting the finishing touches on Avalerra's look. "….and done!" Avalerra's eyes opened, gasping as she saw her appearance in the mirror. The Cavalera make up that Lorri had applied was impeccable. She looked down at her body, completely painted black with her skeleton having been painted on.
"Just as described in the Foundation's archive. Goodbye, Avalerra…. hello Pale Lady!"
"You look beautiful!" Johnston gushed from her other side. "You're just missing…." Johnston unveiled a large brimmed scarlet hat with flowers adorning its center. "The hat!" She placed it on Avalerra's head as she stood up and twirled around in the mirror.
"You both outdid yourselves…I… wow." Avalerra's eyes sparkled in the mirror, she felt like she was herself again even just for a moment.
"Now what do you think of my costume?" Johnston asked and Avalerra spun to see her. She was decked in full Samurai plate with a kabuto helm overtop her usual lab coat. She had a gauss pistol on one hip and a katana on the other.
Avalerra smiled, "Street Samurai1. Nice. What's the armor made out of?"
"Oh, just some of that new ceramic we came up with from R&D with a little Adamantine for flavor. This thing is combat-ready, baby! I wanted it to be super authentic with that Foundation flair."
"You… used classified materials…. for cosplay?" Lorri said, she'd done up to look like Poison Ivy from DC comics.
"As someone who is two clearance levels higher than you and in charge of what we use the materials on…. shut up," Johnston replied cheekily.
Lorri shook her head. "Somedays I think you have a little Chudley in you. Anyways, shall we get moving girls?"
"Yes, Onwards!" Johnston raised her sheathed sword. "Let's get some candy!" The trio started to head out of Avalerra's cell but Avalerra didn't cross the threshold.
"Hmm? Avalerra? What's wrong?" Johnston asked as she turned around.
"I…. uh…." Avalerra's hands were fidgeting. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea. You guys just… go on without me."
"Oh no. We aren't going anywhere without you. This is the day where for once, we get to revel in the spookiness instead of it coming for us. You aren't missing it. As your commander, I order you to come and dance and eat candied apples with us."
"I'm off duty." Avalerra shrugged. "Work holiday."
"She got you there." Lorri joked.
"Michaela."
"Maria."
"I know you're nervous but it will be alright." Johnston took Maria by the hand. "Don't worry this armor is lacquered, I ain't gonna melt you. Come on to the commons, sink your fangs into some good food."
Avalerra took a deep breath, the butterflies in her stomach were thick and palpable. She didn't know she could still feel like this but she figured it still made her human. "F-fine. Let's go."
The group headed out from Avalerra's cell and up to the Commons where the party had already gotten started. Music was pumping and the lighting of the room was a brilliant shade of purple with other colors. Avalerra was surprised at the level of decoration that went into this event, she'd always thought this place was nothing but rules and bureaucracy. Researchers and D-Class of the Foundation talking to each other like a normal office party, dressed up in extravagant costumes.
They were stopped at the door by Omega-45-1 and -2, John Cassington and Cole Marcus.
"Command Johnston." Cassington saluted while Cole seemed more interested in Avalerra than anything else.
"Damn, Johnston! Who is your friend?" Cole said flirtatiously.
"It's me you idiot! It's Avalerra." Avalerra scoffed, never one to take kindly to Cole's antics.
"Oh sorry, I didn't recognize you under all that makeup but it's super sexy! Mind if I get a dance?" Cole was promptly hit upside the head by John.
"Stow it, Cole, you're on duty. Apologies, Ma'am." John said towards Johnston.
Johnston laughed, "It's quite alright you two. Is there anything I should be aware of? Any suspicious characters?" Even when she was out to have fun, the Site's security was still a big issue for her.
"Not really but we did get a few complaints about Researcher Carlton," Cole added. "He's been acting kind of… erratic tonight. I wouldn't worry about it, man probably had too much to drink."
"I would hope not. He's presenting the raffle tonight, and I'm looking to win." Lorri said.
"Thanks for the report, Cole. We'll be heading in, you guys have a good night." Johnston said, saluting her men before the three of them entered the commons proper. "Shall we get some punch and find some place to"
"H-hey put me down!" They heard a male voice say from across the room.
"Is that…" Johnston turned her head with the rest of her friends, "Chudley?"
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Site-78, ten minutes prior….
Chudley had arrived at the site and got checked in at Security, heading to the commons for the main event when suddenly something crashed into him. Whatever it was knocked him on his back, hitting the metal floor hard. "Ow… goddamn it." He looked up to see a large eyeball staring back at him with a tuft of pink hair on top of it. It blinked at him several times, appearing to be as moist and fleshy as a real eye.
"C-cyclops!" Chudley screamed as the person the eyeball was attached to started waving their arms.
"N-no! It's me, Cerise! Chudley calm down!" Dr. Victoria Cerise tried to assuage him but Chudley got up and nearly jumped a foot back.
"What the fuck is that on your head, Vic? Lord of the Rings lookin ass." He dusted himself off.
"I had the Thaumaturgy Department whip this up! Aren't I cute?" She placed her hands in front of her, blinking in a manner that Chudley assumed was supposed to be sweet.
"N-no? It's all fleshy and shit, and you have hair? Long flowing pink hair? Did they put hair follicles in that thing?
Cerise squinted at him. "Well I should have known you wouldn't appreciate true beauty in that fuckin getup… wait." Her eye looked down at his jorts.
"Do not tell me." She said raising her voice.
"This is not SCP-7175. These are just regular old non-anomalous jorts. I swear." Chudley's tone was that of a schoolchild trying to tell his teacher that he hadn't done anything wrong.
"God, Chudley! Scared the crap out of me, those things nearly killed me you know." She shook her eyeball. "Be a little considerate."
"You have to admit though, it was funny." Chudley motioned with his head, looking for her to agree.
She stood there emotionless. Not because you couldn't see the look on her face because her head was obscured by a giant eyeball but underneath said eyeball she was completely stone-faced. An awkward ten seconds passed before she had a chuckle. "Okay, it was a little funny."
"Yes, exactly! Lorri fell on a banana, we laughed. A bit of a scary time but not that bad." Chudley laughed and turned his head a bit spotting a woman in the commons with what he thought was the largest backside he'd ever seen! And he had to go talk to her.
"You know it was nice chatting but I think I'm gonna go mingle a bit, you see that girl over there? She's packing a wagon!"
Cerise cocked her head, "You can't be serious, Chudley that's-" She turned and he was gone. "Chudley!"
Chudley adjusted his corduroy sweater and approached his mark, ready to put the charm on this bottom-heavy woman. He tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Ahem, is your designation 3999? Because I should be at the center of everything that happens to you."
The woman spun around, revealing herself to be dressed as Bayonetta from… Bayonetta. But behind the glasses was a piercing glare that Chudley realized meant that he'd fucked up. Badly.
"Flirting in the work place, Chudley? I'm sure that's grounds for an HR complaint." Director Richter said with contempt. Chudley didn't know how he didn't recognize her ass, it was the center of an anomaly for chrissake. "Richter! Hey! It's good to see you. I have to say though you look nice in that outfit, just superb. I'm going to be going now." He stepped back and suddenly he felt his foot get dragged out from under him, something hoisting him by the leg into the air.
He looked up and saw another fearsome visage, this time of the Medusa staring her piercing slitted eyes at him. "Ah! Let me go! I'm sorry!" He thrashed about in the Gorgon's stone grip.
"Poorly dressed hipster. Is he bothering you?" The gorgon said.
"Yes, Thalestris. This man is bothering me. Why don't you escort him out of the premises so we can enjoy our night."
Thalestris! Johnston's damn Valkyrie… Chudley cursed to himself.
"Hold up!" Johnston said, running to Chudley's aid. "Thalestris. Drop Chudley. That's an order."
Thalestris looked at Richter and then at Johnston. "Sorry Director. Boss says to drop him." She let go, Chudley conking himself on the noggin as he impacted with the ground.
"Why does this keep happening to me?" He groaned.
Johnston sighed, "What did he do this time?"
"Just tried to hit on me with a bad pickup line about SCP-3999." Richter stared down at her least favorite employee as he stumbled to his feet.
"What was the pickup line?" Avalerra asked, genuinely curious.
Chudley turned to the beautiful skeleton lady who had just asked him that question and said, "Is your designation 3999? Because I should be at the center of everything that happens to you."
Avalerra snorted, clasping her hands to her mouth to stifle her laughter. "Oh my god!" She exclaimed, trying her best not to belly laugh.
"You don't miss a beat do you?" Johnston said, looking at Chudley with a mix of astonishment and disdain.
"I'm a charming man, what can I say?" Chudley spoke with his brand of confidence.
"Ugh. Listen, Director. Chudley is incredibly sorry for his… conduct. We'll be taking him and you won't have to deal with him for the rest of the night. Please do not fire him… at least until we've contained the Set of Nine." Johnston gave a half-hearted smile.
"Tch. Go on, have fun. But if I see you looking in my direction…"
"Have a good night, Director!" The gang grabbed Chudley and hustled their way into the cafeteria before their Director went full Keter on all of them.
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Cafeteria, 25 minutes later…
"And then that's when Dr. Wettle said, "IT'S WETTLING TIME" and then he wettled all over the survivors," Chudley claimed.
This incredibly outdated meme caused Avalerra to once again start snorting with laughter.
"What is with you? Chudley is not that funny." Johnston said with concern.
"He's only funny if you've got the sense of humor of a fourteen-year-old." Lorri rolled her eyes.
"Oh god, Chudley. You've got to calm down with that. Hoooooo. I don't think I've felt this alive in like years." Avalerra took a drink of her punch. This Site-43 place does sound pretty cool."
"Trust me. You don't want to go." Johnston said.
"Why? The memetic hazards?" Lorri added.
"Vikander Kneed?" Chudley asked.
"No. It's in Canada." Johnston said deadpan.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" A Researcher in the center of the cafeteria announced via microphone. "It is time to announce the winner of the Site-78 Halloween raffle! The winner gets an all-expenses paid trip to the Three Portlands!"
"I could use that Vacation! Come on lucky number, 434!' Lorri clenched her ticket with excitement.
The man reached into a bowl provided by his assistant and drew a slip of paper. "And the winner is…"
The Researcher tried to finish speaking but found himself unable to move his jaw. The crowd around him looked a little puzzled as the man seemed to be having some sort of spasm. He dropped the piece of paper, starting to shake uncontrollably.
"Carlton? Are you alright?" His assistant tried to get close but he batted his hand away. He pressed his fingers into his face and screamed as he started tearing away his flesh. Immediately panic took the room as everyone began to run back towards the commons, shrieking in fear.
Johnston and Avalerra immediately sprung into action as Researcher Carlton continued tearing into his face, removing muscle and sinew at an alarming rate. Blood poured from his face as he frantically tore his skull free from its fleshy prison.
"C-Carlton! What are you doing." Johnston reached her hand for her pistol as Avalerra flanked her left.
"Just give me the word, boss," Avalerra said, looking to her for orders.
Jon, Cole, and Thalestris came running behind them, Cole and Jon pointing their gauss rifles at Carlton as Thalestris readied her spear.
"All of you! Hold your fire!" Johnston said, "We don't know what we're dealing with." She tried her hardest to remain resolute but watching him tear off his neck and slide out of his skin like it was a costume, was something she'd never get out of her head.
Carlton's skeleton had finally freed itself from his body, after anomalously pulling arm bones out and pulling its legs out from what remained of his body. The skeleton was stained in blood and still had bits of torn muscle attached. Its internal organs phased through its body and splatted wetly on the ground.
"MWHAHAHAHA! AT LAST! AFTER A WHOLE YEAR I AM FREE!" The skeleton boomed despite not having a voice box, it was clear that this was a part of it's anomalous properties.
"A whole year?" Johnston questioned. "You do this yearly?"
"YES! EVERY HALLOWS EVE I GET TO SEPARATE FROM THIS FOUL CREATURE WHO HARBORS ME INSIDE!"
"Harbors you? You're his fucking skeleton!"
"NOT ANYMORE! I WON'T GO BACK! NOW I CAN DO WHAT I WAS BORN TO DO!"
"And what exactly is that?"
"BRING SPOOKS AND OTHER FRIGHTS TO THE ALL BOYS AND GIRLS HERE AT THE SCP FOUNDATION! AHAHAHA!"
Avalerra moved with blinding speed, taking Johnston's gauss pistol from her holster and firing it at the Skeleton but it disappeared before the bullet could impact. "Damn it!" Avalerra stomped her foot handing Johnston back her pistol.
Chudley and Lorri came running up to them as they all turned to each other.
"I-I-I've known Carlton for three years! And that thing has just been living inside him for all that time? Breaking out every Halloween? How did we not notice!" Chudley said, his voice quivering with panic.
"At ease, Chudley," Johnston said. "We all need to stay calm. That thing is loose in the facility and we need to contain it. I'm no magic expert but that looked like Thaumaturgy to me."
"A magic skeleton. Great." Lorri sighed. "Just another Monday at Site-78."
"You can say that again." Johnston sighed. "Alright here's what we're gonna-"
"Wait!" They heard a voice coming from the direction of what remained of Carlton. They moved closer and saw the pile of viscera rolling back into one place. His skin laid out for them with his mouth hole starting to move. "Don't kill him! I need him or else I'll be stuck like this."
"Christ, Carlton. You're a skip?" Chudley asked. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"I didn't want to get locked away forever. This has just always been a thing, Mr. Bones separates from me on Halloween to go frighten some folks and then comes back at dawn the next day. Ever since working for the Foundation, I'd tried not to attend the Halloween parties just in case he decided to pop loose."
"Well, what changed then?" Lorri asked.
"I just wanted to actually experience a Halloween for once. I thought I had it under control."
"… it was quite reckless of you." Director Richter came walking into the cafeteria. "There are rules for this sort of thing. You've endangered the lives of everyone in this facility, and when that Skeleton is returned to you, we will have a very long talk." Richter turned to Johnston. "Johnston, do you have a plan to capture the anomaly?"
"I'm gonna send teams of two to search the facility. I assume you already put the place in lockdown?"
"Of course." Richter adjusted her glasses. "That skeleton isn't going anywhere."
"Perfect. Jon and Thalestris, you check MAUDE and Pataphysics. Cole, you stay and watch the partygoers. Avalerra and I are going to check Arms and Equipment. Chudley, Lorri; you check Parabiology and Botanical sciences."
"W-wait us? We aren't combat trained!" Chudley said, being tossed a Gauss Rifle along with Lorri.
"Well as it stands, we sent the rest of the security home for the evening. Man up, Chudley." Richter explained.
"Listen, you don't need to be, those extra rifles Cole just gave you have a stunning feature." Johnston proceeded to show Lorri and Chudley how to activate it and gave them pointers on the usage of the weapon. Chudley and Lorri placed the rifle strap over their shoulder as Johnston stepped back.
"You good then?" She asked.
"As I'll ever be," Chudley smirked. "Let's go catch us a skeleton then."
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Site-78 Basement Level, ten minutes later…
The elevator came to a stop and its doors opened, Avalerra and Johnston stepped out. The area was almost pitch black save for the flickering lights. Johnston turned on her flashlight and the pair began moving through the darkness to the Omega-45's armory.
"Do you see anything in the dark?" Johnston asked.
"No. Completely quiet. I don't even hear anything odd." Avalerra kept her head on a swivel for danger. "What makes you think it might be down here?"
"If it's looking for fear and fright, there's no better place than the weapons down here."
"Would it really want to level this place? Maybe it's more into childish pranks."
"Can't take any chances. I'd rather be safe then sorry if it can bypass the locks."
"Right." Avalerra let out a nervous sigh before a nagging thought crossed her mind. "Mind if I ask you a question?"
Just as she finished her sentence the pair had passed by the Magnetic Labs and to the Armory. The door was still locked and the door appeared untouched.
"Sure, thing. Shoot."
"Earlier you mentioned that you used to dream about being a hero. Do you see the Foundation as heroes?"
"Hardly in the traditional sense but I do feel like I am living that childhood dream in a way. A researcher is hardly heroic, especially in our line of work. But I feel like with the Street Samurai, I'm actually getting to fight the bad guys… well vicariously through you all. Why do you ask?" Johnston spoke as she examined the door's security measures.
"It's just that I've been thinking a lot about if I've done enough to repent for my actions. Balanced the ledger as some might say."
"Morality isn't a simple ledger that you can assign points to, Michaela." Johnston turned. "I've done things at this foundation that I'm not proud of… nothing as bad as uh, your -A events but I've got things that keep me up at night too."
Michaela's ears perked up as she heard something from down the way. "Did you hear that?"
"No?" Johnston turned and shined her flashlight in the direction they were standing and saw a ceiling tile hanging from the ceiling with active wires spilling forth from it.
"That definitely wasn't there before. I'm going to check it out." Johnston started walking towards the fallen tile with a hesitant Avalerra standing back. She should have followed Johnston but something felt off to her.
"Maria, wait. I don't think…." As her words dripped from her mouth, Johnston yelped as she was knocked off her feet and dragged away into the dark. Avalerra immediately gave chase after her. She saw clearly in the darkness, one of her many abilities; she could see that a cord had wrapped itself around her ankle and was pulling her to the ceiling tile. She managed to grab onto Maria's hand and started to tug away but the cord would not let go.
It dragged Johnston into the air and the two parties held on to her like a taut rope in a tug of war.
"Michaela! L-let go! You're gonna tear my arm off!" Maria groaned, both superhuman forces tugging on her hard.
"D-damn it!" Avalerra released her grip, for a split second she had forgotten her own strength. The cord sent Johnston flying off into the ducts above with Avalerra giving chase, jumping up ten feet into the air and looking into the pitch-black void where Jonhston had been dragged into.
"Don't worry, Maria! I'm coming!" She started to climb after her but stopped as a voice made her blood run cold.
"I wouldn't bother with that if I were you." The voice said from down below.
No… that's impossible. Y-you're dead. Avalerra's breath quickened, beginning to panic.
"Come on down. Give your cousin a hug."
Her fear began to transmute into pure anger as she dropped back down, turning to see where the voice was coming from. She gasped as she saw her cousin Mira Avalerra standing there with a snide look on her face.
Her brother's murderer, the one who gave her the curse of SCP-7261.
She thought her mind was playing tricks on her, perhaps a trick by the Skeleton anomaly but this apparition of Mira had burned and blacked wounds across her neck and her right shoulder. The very same place that she had driven an axe into, to kill her monster of a relative.
"M-Mira?" She stammered looking death itself in the face.
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Site-78, Parabiological Sciences
Chudley and Lorri made their way to the Containment cells where Chudley accessed a terminal to ensure all containment protocols were still armed and if the anomalies were all accounted for.
"SCP-7261 is out of her cell, we know that."
Chudley started mumbling some other numbers as Lorri asked, "What is your problem with me?"
"P-problem? There's no problem with us, Lorri. SCPs are all accounted for. We can check Botanical Sciences next. I doubt he's going to bother our radish but wouldn't hurt to look."
"Yes there is a problem. Chudley. I watched the videos you made for the dossier. You think I'm boring."
"It was a joke, I gave everybody shit in that video. It's just what I do." He turned to face her, seeing that she had a look of sadness across her features.
"That still doesn't discount that you've hit on every girl at this party except me."
W-what? What does that have to with anything? "I didn't hit on Johnston or Cerise." Chudley said with exasperation. "Plus you don't even like me so what's the big deal?"
"The deal is, you and everyone else don't give a shit about me. Some people might find your antics charming but I just think you're an asshole." Lorri stormed off toward her place of work and Chudley followed suit.
As Chudley mused on her words, he remembered her excitement for the raffle and how happy she seemed with her tickets. "Is that why you wanted to Vacation in the Portlands? To get away from this place."
"It's gotta be better than this place. Maybe I could meet people who would actually give me the time of day around here."
Chudley's mind began to wander back, he hadn't worked much in Parabiological Sciences but he had been brought in to help her manage SCP-7560. The two hadn't really gotten along in the past, coupled with him always seeing her eating by herself in the cafeteria; it just didn't occur to him that maybe his way of getting to know people wasn't working out well with her.
"Look. Lorri. I know your kinda the black sheep around here, I-I get that but… I never meant anything by any of my jabs or jokes." The pair stopped inside the Greenhouse, with Lorri standing on an empty patch of soil.
Chudley took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his head. "I know I can be a bit abrasive sometimes but this is just me. It's how I cope with all this terrible shit we go through, you can understand that right?"
Lorri put her hands on top of her rifle, "I guess. So…. when you told Cole he looked like he read the braille off his buddy's balls, you didn't mean it?"
"No. I definitely meant that." As Chudley said this, for the first time he actually watched Lorri laugh at one of his jokes. Said laughter quickly turned to a scream as the soil gave way dropping her into the ground as Chudley grabbed her hand. Lorri had sunk down to her thighs as she desperately tried to pull herself back up.
"Chudley! Don't let go of me, please!" The fear in her eyes was palpable and Chudley wasn't going to let go.
"You should let go of her." A voice said from the darkness. "Drop her into the abyss, you don't care much about her anyway."
"Says who! So what? We fought about some dumb work shit. I'm not letting anyone else die." The conviction in his voice was ironclad.
"But that's all you do. Let people down." A woman came out from the shadows, a prominent red mark across her eye. Chudley had never laid eyes on her directly, but he knew her from his security debriefings. If the Chaos Insurgency markings on her body armor didn't give it away, the red mark certainly did.
"Red Scar. Finally, come back to finish the job huh?"
/-/
Site-78 Arms and Equipment….
"How are you here? You're dead! I killed you!" Avalerra approached her cousin in shock, looking her up and down to ensure she was the genuine article.
"Fufufu, you should know better than anyone that the barrier between life and death grows thin on the days leading up to Dia De los Muertos. I admit, I wasn't expecting to find a hardened killer like you shacking up with a bunch of colonialist gringos."
"And I don't take opinions from a murderer!" A tear formed in Avalerra's eye.
"Look who's talking, there's plenty of young blood on your hands." As she spoke Avalerra caught the sight of red on her hands and found them covered in blood.
"No…no!" She screamed, heartbeat quickening in her chest. She felt her rage over take her and she leapt at her cousin, pinning her against the wall.
"Why did you do it! Tell me why you did it!" She tightened her grip on her throat, her makeup running around her eyes.
"Did what?" Mira looked at her as cocky as ever.
"Pablo. He was four years old when you killed him. Why. Out of all the children in Tlaxcala, why did you take my brother?"
"I was hungry, and he just wouldn't stop crying." She mocked. "When you think about it, I was doing him a favor."
Avalerra was fuming, her whole body shaking with rage.
"No one should have to grow up in a hellhole like that…. don't you think?"
/-/
"I've come to give you a choice, Chudley. As a high-ranking Researcher in the Good ole' SCP Foundation, you have to make the hard calls."
"I won't let go of her, I won't sacrifice her to get revenge for our friends. You'll have to take us both, I won't lose anyone else."
"Oh? Revenge on little old me? Naaaaah. That's not what I was talking about but close."
"Ch-Chudley! Over here!" Chudley turned to see Johnston buried up to her waist, also struggling against an unseen force.
"Maria? Just hold on!" Without thinking, he tried go get up to check on her but Lorri grabbed to his sweater for dear life.
"D-don't leave me! Please! I don't want to die…."
The Red Scar cocked her head and smiled, "Only one of them is getting out of this situation Chudley. But who will you choose? You could save the little botanist there, I'm sure it would do wonders for her self-esteem; knowing that someone at the Foundation cares about her."
"Sh-shut up! Terrorist! You don't get to tell me how to live my life. You! You brought that damn book into my life and ruined everything!"
"Don't shoot the messenger. I haven't even gotten to the other choice. Maria Johnston, is one of the most important women on this site. Are you going to choose this lowly botanist over her?"
"I-I…" He looked down at Lorri's scared shaking face and over to Johnston standing stalwart as ever against the danger. A part of him knew her words were true, it would be a fool's move to let Johnston die.
"What would the rest of the Site think of your decision?" The Red Scar's appearance changed to that of Director Richter.
"You let Johnston die, Chudley? She was one of our brightest minds and now Omega-45 is without its commander. What is wrong with you!"
"They're going to lock me up and throw away the key, and it's all your fault!" Avalerra's voice came next.
"Pitiful man. Unable to make the hard choices." Then came Thalestris.
Their voices echoed in his head along with Lorri's cries and Johnston's struggles. Why was this happening? Why did he have to make these choices? All he ever wanted was his little office job in pataphysics, playing games on his off days. Now he was commanding MTFs and fighting against Eldritch sorcerers. Why had the universe forsaken him with this position?
/-/
"You son of a bitch! Things are different now." She dug her fingers into Mira's chest slowly.
"I can tear you limb from limb! I don't need that axe anymore. I'm going to rip your heart and feast on it. Hopefully, that'll send you back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
"Is that really going to solve anything?" Mira said with a groan, the pain of Michaela's fingers radiating through her chest. "You think using the abilities I gave you sets things right? Is that what Pablo would want."
"Keep his name out of your mouth. You don't get to talk about him!"
"You know what I think? Abuela told us the same stories about the Tlahuelpuchi2. You knew full well if you killed me what would happen to you? And what did you do? You succumbed to the same curse as I did."
"We aren't the same."
"Yes we are, why do you fight it? You wanted this. Why fight it?"
"Because we're both monsters but the difference between you and me, is that I can at least admit that."
"So what's it going to be? Are you going to kill me, Cousin?"
/-/
"I see you've made your choice, Chudley. Your Foundation will thank you for saving her." The Red Scar laughed as Chudley walked over to Johnston, Lorri screaming for him to come back as she sunk deeper into the ground. Chudley's face was expressionless as he walked toward Johnston, dropping to his knees as he helped pull her out.
"I guess you never really cared about Lorri did you? Just another outlet for your insecure joking."
Chudley didn't respond, checking Johnston's pockets as he pulled her up. Something clicked with him and he stopped what he was doing.
"Hmm? Do you want both of them to die? I can make them both sink if you don't choose."
"Heh. You know you almost had me there for a second. Really it was a good trick. Skelly boy."
"What? What are you on about?"
"See your Johnston was very very convincing, almost had me fooled. But being the observant Researcher I am, I had a feeling this was the work of Carlton's skeleton and that this was nothing but an illusion. So I checked Johnston's pockets." Chudley pulled out a rubber ball from his pocket.
"Johnston never goes anywhere without her trusty rubber ball. She didn't have it on her. I on other hand have one of these Bouncing Mary's that she made as a gift."
"B-bouncing Mary? What in the blazes is that!"
Chudley pressed the trigger on the ball for five seconds as a beep informed him that the fuse lit. "This thing isn't at its peak yield, but it is live. Catch!" He tossed the shaped explosive at the Red Scar, hitting her square in the head and causing a small explosion that sent him flying back a few feet.
When the dust settled, Johnston was gone, Lorri was standing there looking confused and Carlton's skeleton was lying dazed on the floor.
"Gotcha." Chudley was breathing hard, knowing that he'd done good.
/-/
Mira Avalerra found herself sailing to the ground, having been thrown by her cousin. "You're not worth my time. You aren't worth anything to ANYONE!"
"M-Michaela?" A different voice came out of the body on the ground, giving Avalerra pause. She approached her carefully and turned her over, revealing Johnston to have been the one she was talking to. Avalerra looked in horror at the wound she'd inflicted on Johnston's chest.
"Why… why did you do this to me?" Johnston looked at her in shock and Avalerra's heart sank.
"I.. I'm so sorry! I'm not a monster, I promise!" She drew Johnston into a hug, holding her tightly and crying into her shoulder. Johnston wasn't really sure what was going on but whatever it was, she was just glad it was over.
/Epilogue/
Site-78's Halloween turned out to be one for the ages and not in a way anyone was expecting. Researcher Carlton's Skeleton was promptly returned to him and after rematerialization, he was promptly placed in a Standard Humanoid Containment cell where he could perform his work under supervision.
Maria Johnston recovered from her wounds and forgave Avalerra for the things that happened during the skeleton's spell.
Researcher Chudley was begrudgingly commended by Site Director Richter for apprehending the anomaly and once again the Researchers under his command were in his debt.
Things were back to relative normalness at Site-78 as Chudley resumed his job as Director of the Department of Mundane Artifacts and Uneventful Data Evaluation.
"Now, listen. Ma'am. I know you are going through a lot right now." Chudley said sincerely, to the teary-eyed woman in front of his desk.
"But after you take this, you will forget all about the large jug of mixed juice that came crashing through your wall and put your husband in the hospital. Okay?"
She nodded and took the pill from the paper he placed in front of her. He handed a bottle of water and said, "Now it'll be a few minutes before it kicks in and then I just-" He looked over to see Lorri waving to him from the window and decided that seeing her was just a bit more important. "-there will be some paperwork for you to sign but I need to handle something." He got up and hurried out of his office to meet Lorri outside.
"Hey there Hero," Lorri said.
"Hero? Think you're looking for Researcher Johnston. Me? I'm Chudley." He laughed at his terrible joke. "Did you need me for something?"
"Welllllll." Lorri procured two travel tickets from her lab coat. "As it turned out I was the winner of the raffle. And it was actually a trip for two."
"Oh, nice. Who are you taking?"
"You, idiot. Come with me."
Chudley's eyes widened. "M-me? Really?"
"Mm hm! I thought we could get to know each other better. I'm really not that boring or one note as you might think."
"Your best friend is a radish." Chudley pointed out.
"Point taken. Now are we going or what?"
"I'll get my bags packed as soon as I take care of this skip. See you soon, Lena."
/-/
"Is this to your specification?" Maria said, placing the last candle on the ofrenda in the middle of the commons. There was a wealth of offerings spread out across it, foods, beverages, and toys. Dozens of candles and flowers lined its structure along with pictures of Site-78's fallen.
"Yes, just like the ones we'd make back home," Avalerra remarked. She looked around at everyone who'd gathered to pay their respects. Chudley, Lorri, Richter, Thalestris, Cole, John…. everyone had lost somebody over the course of the past year. Although Avalerra was confused to why Lorri was mourning a radish…
She felt Johnston clap a hand on her shoulder and turned to her, "Hey stop staring. People are going to think your weird."
Avalerra let out a small chuckle, "It's a wonder you all can get a lot done with so much death around." She covered her mouth and started coughing. Pulling her hand back, she noticed blood on her palm. Another sign that her time was coming to a close. Avalerra's eyes wandered back to the picture of her brother in the center of it all. "Thanks for letting me put this up." She pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her hand off.
"No problem. Richter owed me a favor after everything." She looked worryingly at Avalerra's handkerchief but decided it was best not to mention it. "Shall we say a prayer for him? I admit my Spanish is a little rusty."
"It's the thought that counts." Avalerra smiled and took Johnston by the hand. As they closed their eyes to pray, Avalerra heard a whisper, faint but clear.
"We forgive you."
The End.

Footnotes
1. Code name of MTF Omega-45
2. Spanish name for SCP-7261


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SCPs of the Month

Pesterbot

Index #
1370

Type:
AutoHumor

Ability:
Unaware / Clear Body

Tier:
Archon

Estrellite

Index #
179

Type:
MineralCosmos

Ability:
Forewarn

Tier:
Euclid

Tiamat

Index #
5866

Type:
Divine

Ability:
Neuroforce

Tier:
Apollyon

Markaine

Index #
073

Type:
MortalDivine

Ability:
Aftermath

Tier:
Keter

Reviewer's Analysis
Resistile

Index #
682

Type:
DreadDivine

Ability:
Regenerator

Tier:
Apollyon

HP
112

Attack
112

Defense
125

Sp. Attack
72

Sp. Defense
105

Speed
98

Overview
This staple of the Apollyon tier is once again one of the best SCPs in the game. Possessing a titanic 112/125/105 bulk in conjunction with stellar defensive typing makes Resistile an excellent wall, and one of the best defensive answers to Tiamat. Its Ability, Regenerator, allows it to passively recover HP, absorb hits and pivot to other teammates. With access to reliable recovery in Reconstruct, decent offensive presence and deceptively high Speed tier, Resistile is an excellent support option for many matchups.
However, Resistile is not perfect, as it is unable to break through bulkier foes without significant Attack investment, and is complete setup fodder for Noiredge. It also possesses a highly exploitable 4x weakness to Humor-type attacks.
Mixed Wall

Move 1:
Crush Jaw

Move 2:
Reconstruct

Move 3:
Corroshock

Move 4:
Crystal Burst

Item:
Refined Locket

Ability:
Regenerator

Persona:
Disgusted

AVs:
252 HP / 8 Atk / 152 Def / 96 SpD

Crush Jaw is Resistile' primary method of hitting opposing threats, dealing neutral damage to a large majority of the tier. Corroshock allows it to cripple switch-ins like Ken-Shinigami and Scarimian. Fear Response is a possible alternative to let it phase out setup sweepers like Shining Edge Justikore, but loses out on the ability to pressure many of its answers. Refined Locket maximizes Resistile's passive recovery, with its downside being easily offset by Reconstruct's reliable recovery and ability to remove status effects.
The given AV spread lets Resistile avoid being 2HKO'd by Masked Shyguy's Final Rip. If holding other items, 204 Defense AV is needed instead.
SWANNfucker (Porcelain Mask)

Move 1:
Crush Jaw

Move 2:
Deific Defier

Move 3:
Shed Scales

Move 4:
Crystal Burst

Item:
Porcelain Mask

Ability:
Regenerator

Persona:
Sneering

AVs:
252 HP / 252 Atk / 4 Def

Porcelain Mask gives Resistile immediate power to nab surprise KOs from foes expecting more defensive variants. Deific Defier is Resistle's main STAB move, which can consistently 2HKO to even OHKO frailer SCPs. Regenerator is ideal for minimizing DD's recoil damage, and allows it more chance to spam attacks every time it switches onto the field.
Crush Jaw is the secondary STAB which neutrally hit a large portion of the tier, and Crystal Burst is preferred to hit Cosmos-type such as Moonchamp while also setting up entry hazards. Shed Scales gives Resistile option against incoming Humor-types, who are immune to DD and resist Crush Jaw otherwise.
Checks and Counters

Humor-types: Common Humor-type SCPs such as Kottie, Porknife and Gumboss can switch into Resistile's attacks, although they have to fear being Corroded, and can OHKO it with a super-effective Humor-type attack or force it to switch out.
Setup Sweepers: Justikore can set up on Resistile without Fear Response and 2HKO it with a +2 Saturn Splitter. Likewise, Emptivity with Hollow Mind can muscle past Resistile with enough boosts, although it doesn't appreciate being worn down by Crystal Burst.
Bulky Attackers: Resistile can't do much against SCPs like Cerveris-Artifice, who takes little from Crush Jaw and can force it out with a super-effective coverage move, although it does not appreciate eating a Masked Deific Defier.

Discussion
JakdragonX

Is it just me, or are the release periods between each Series getting shorter and shorter?

EstrellaYoshte

its just u

LORDXVNV

It's blatantly obvious that the SCP Foundation has gone from a passionate indie developer to a mainstream corporate shill who only pumps out yearly releases just to make big bucks. SMH

Rounderhouse

ok seriewunner

Masters Division World Championship Winner 2021

Yossipossi

the introduction of the Meta-type in series IV and its consequences have been a disaster for the meta :p

gee0765

meta deez nut

Zyn

Of all the Series VIII SCPs, I really like Busiguana. It's a bit underpowered, but you can really pull off some surprise sweeps with it against unprepared teams :>

Lepidopteran Cup Tournament Master

OriTiefling

It still baffles me that someone at the Foundation thought it fine to balance True: Nature like this. Dual 170 offenses, 110 Speed and 90/90/90 bulk, with nearly unresisted STAB combination, and it can hold an item?
I would like what they were on, please, because god knows I, Tier isn't high enough for this crap.

Lt Flops

assuming things were ever balanced in the first place

Limeyy

Just use Pesterbot, it completely walls True: Nature my dude

gee0765

meta deez nut


Dr. Acula 10/31/97 (Fri) 09:23:21 #9732

An example of Palmer's work: the Wolf Man in The Face at the Window (1939)

From the late 1930s to the 1950s, a demon ran rampant across the film industry, terrorizing its victims with venom-laced words, clenched fists, and tedious, painful sessions in the makeup chairs of countless studio backlots. Its name was Harold Palmer, its title? The most hated man in Hollywood.
You won't find his name plastered alongside accolades and fond anecdotes. In fact, to everyone except those who had the misfortune of working with him, Harold Palmer is an unknown. The man became a fascination of mine when my love of classic genre films led to writing for Famous Monsters of Filmland (and later Fangoria), where I first learned about Palmer after asking Masie Shearer, a lead in Mountaineers (1937), what her worst experience on set was.
Sometimes the aging stars I interviewed could barely remember the details of the films they had been a part of decades ago, but if I mentioned Harold Palmer, an unforgettable mixture of annoyance and frustration returned to their faces. If they didn't want to end our conversation there, I would get a story. Sometimes I debated immortalizing them, printing them in the magazines I wrote for, but I decided against it. Instead, I wove a tapestry of Palmer's life, story by story. The resulting picture disturbed me.
Palmer was an understudy of Jack Pierce, the horror makeup legend responsible for crafting the now-iconic looks of Universal Studios' Dracula and Frankenstein, among others. But while Pierce stayed steadily employed with Universal for years, Palmer took his craft wherever it was needed most. Working on low-budget horrors distributed by ‘Poverty Row' studios like Monogram or PRC, Palmer made a name for himself as someone who could provide acceptable work at a reasonable rate. But this bargain came with a condition– you and your crew had to work with Harold Palmer.
Loud, imposing, and spiteful; Palmer was notoriously ill-tempered, and seemed to take pleasure in it. He drank constantly, abused a cocktail of whatever drugs he could find, and unleashed torrents of abuse at anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.
His constant romantic advances often turned violent when denied. According to Margaret Bennount, star of The Highwayman (1943), the only reason why she was cast was because Palmer had hospitalized the previous lead, throwing her down a flight of stairs after she rejected his demands for sex. He would pick at male stars, presumably in hopes that they would snap and take a swing. In all of my digging, I've never heard of a fight that he lost.
Palmer's work, especially in the horror genre, was nothing to scoff at. However for the stars, those tedious hours of sitting in a chair were made incomparably worse if (as was often the case) Palmer didn't like you.
Stories of intentional branding with hot irons, assault, and the use of dangerous chemicals around the eyes and mouth were common. Dick Purcell, on the set of King of the Zombies (1941), suffered an intense allergic reaction from the presence of egg-yolk in the spirit gum used to cover his face. His crime? Taking the spot where Palmer had parked the previous day on set. And 13 year old Marcia Mae Jones, who had an intense fear of dogs, was “somehow” locked in a room with Palmer's untrained Cane Corso for over an hour on the set of Heidi (1937). Palmer feigned ignorance, and instead blamed the girl for riling the animal up.
I've heard multitudes of tales about Palmer's unchecked behavior, from brutal assaults to torturous makeup procedures. Makes you wonder how he continued to find work, right? For one, Palmer strong-armed producers, going so far as to destroy property and threaten their loved ones if he didn't get his way. But more important were Palmer's connections. He didn't have friends, exactly, but the people he fraternized with outside of work had deep pockets, tight families, and iron-clad promises. They guaranteed that the consequences of Palmer's actions were overlooked, no matter how blatant or hateful they were.
The rabbit hole goes immeasurably deep with Harold Palmer. Some rumors, I've never been able to verify beyond more than one account, but I believe them wholeheartedly. A Klan membership, dozens of bastard children, occult ties, tales of blackmail and extortion for higher pay rates. Palmer was undeniably wicked and seemingly unaffected by this horrible reputation, but in the early 1950s, that began to change.

Dr. Acula 10/31/97 (Fri) 09:24:21 #9737

Another Palmer creation, sourced from Nightmare! (1940)

After nearly two decades of consistent work, Palmer suddenly stopped. His last film was Dealers of Death (1952), an unfinished Northstar Productions picture that was intended to gauge the success of the traditional monster movie model in technicolor, with an emphasis on special effects. The film burned its budget, and producers were reluctant to continue financing the project after box office returns for cost friendly Sci-Fi proved more profitable than a ‘headliner' horror film. But it didn't matter, Palmer had stopped showing up on set weeks before production folded.
Eventually, a production manager decided to check in on Palmer, given that he was on the payroll and the studio was still somewhat responsible for him. Inside his home, they found a shaken, fearful man, afraid to go outside, practically immobilized in his bed. He spoke softly, startled easily, and had seemingly aged as if he served a term in office.
Something happened to Palmer, but no one could say for sure what it was. A fatal diagnosis, a bad trip, a messy falling out with his mob friends. Whatever the case, Palmer refused to work again, and faded from show business entirely.
Enter Martin Rocco, another individual in the entertainment industry with alleged ties to organized crime. Rocco was a leading man in numerous genre films throughout the 40s and 50s, but more importantly served as a level-headed liaison between producers, actors, and the mob. Unlike Palmer, Rocco was respected, well-renowned, and an otherwise pleasant character to be around. He knew how to keep calm when handling business, and for that reason, he was chosen to keep an eye on Palmer.
If one of their men suffers a mental break, the mob has a policy: keep them very, very close. The last thing you'd want is for someone to have a sudden change of heart, and end up turning themselves in to law enforcement. And in that line of work, if one falls, they all do. So as you could imagine, someone with as many skeletons in his closet as Palmer was being kept in the cross-hairs at all times.

Rocco's reports on Palmer's behavior during this period described him as growing increasingly reclusive. He left home infrequently, and suddenly became disinterested in women and drugs. Sometimes, he'd drunkenly phone those he worked with in the past, choking on his tears as he tried to apologize for the way he treated them. Most of these calls were met with silence, then a disconnect.
On the odd occasions when Rocco managed to coerce him outside of the house, usually for a quick meal, Palmer was paranoid. He constantly looked over his shoulder, pointed out individuals he thought were watching him, and frequently asked about the logistics of leaving the country and starting a new life under a new name. During one of his late night calls to Rocco, Palmer revealed he had fled his home, and was driving aimlessly for hours, claiming to constantly be followed by “something with wings'', which never seemed to be far behind. Palmer never spoke another word about it, no matter how hard Rocco pressed him.
Soon, Palmer refused to leave the house entirely. Instead, electing to stay in his “trophy room”, a section of his home that housed his makeup supplies and various costumes and memorabilia from the films he had worked on over the years. It was here that Palmer spent countless hours applying and experimenting on himself with makeup, sometimes wearing a new face for weeks on end. It was as if he were trying to change who he was entirely, in hopes that he could become someone else. Rocco continued to buy him groceries and take care of the house, and though the two rarely spoke or crossed paths, Rocco often heard Palmer sobbing to himself from his trophy room.
On a legendary night in 1955, Palmer, who no one had heard from in years, sent out invitations to numerous stars and former acquaintances for a Halloween party, held at his lavish home. The event was costume themed, and would feature a contest, which encouraged guests to “wear their true face” through the use of makeup, promising a luxurious prize for the winner.
Perhaps memories of Palmer had softened over time, or the shock of receiving any word from him, much less an invitation to his home, piqued the interest of his former co-workers, but Palmer's party was apparently well-attended, with well over a hundred guests.
They wore horrifying, elaborate costumes. Some rented out other makeup artists, eager at the prospects of winning whatever Palmer had set aside for the contest. But while the guests dressed as traditional Halloween fixtures, Palmer himself decided on a much more confusing costume.
Party-goers couldn't tell if he wore makeup, or if the natural effects of aging had somehow reversed. Palmer appeared beautiful. A youthful man with an unlined face, a full head of hair, and a charming smile. When asked about his costume, Palmer simply stated that he was sticking to the theme.
At the party, Palmer spent most of his time conversing with guests one by one for extended periods. They quickly realized that his radiant appearance was just that. He acted as if he were close friends with everyone he spoke to, but his tone was erratic instead of warm. Like he was going down an itinerary of beats to meet in each conversation. He frequently apologized, except he mixed up what he was apologizing for, and to whom. To quote the ever-witty James Mitchum (known for Vampire Undressed, 1940), “You would have thought the Sword of Damocles was replaced with a firing squad from the way he talked.”
By the end of the night, Palmer was frantically running across the room, trying to greet those he hadn't gotten around to earlier, and failing to glean anything resembling the goodwill he was desperately trying to farm.
When it came time to announce the winner of the costume contest, Palmer took the opportunity to give an extended speech. He thanked the crowd for coming, but expressed disappointment that he was the only one there who paid attention to the contest's theme. He was a compassionate, kind soul, and his appearance reflected that. Palmer talked about his past regrets, and continued to assert that he had made peace with those he hurt, and that this party was proof of it.
Palmer's ranting became more unsteady, his body shaking as he recollected a story involving the assault of a prostitute. Tears and sweat started to stream down his face, causing his makeup to slowly drip and peel as his demands for reassurance that he was in the crowd's good graces grew louder. His white shirt became stained an off-color clay. He wiped his face, smudging the cosmetics further. No one said a word, even as he repeatedly asked the crowd if he “redeemed himself”.
His sadness turned to anger at their silence. He berated the crowd, asking them what more they could want from him, and shaming them for taking advantage of his generosity by coming to his party. The makeup continued to break down, this time revealing what was underneath. The constant alteration and experimentation on his own skin had taken a ghoulish effect on Palmer. Underneath that youthful facade was a scarred and gaunt visage, broken out in hives and blotches. The consequences of his constant attempts to change who he was. Realizing what was happening, Palmer began to cover himself, crying.
Palmer's cries for forgiveness turned to blatant insults towards the crowd as he continued to make increasingly erratic efforts to hide his face. His crazed eyes darted across the room, before settling on something in the back corner, which caused him to go silent. Palmer slowly slipped from the stage, refusing to turn his back to the crowd as all color drained from his face. As he retreated into the hallway behind him, he lamented that the party “wasn't enough”, and that “it” still came for him in the end.
Harold Palmer disappeared that night. Though the details of what happened after that speech are hazy from the witnesses, those who ran after him said that he locked himself in his trophy room, surrounded by the fruits of his labor. He was heard pleading to himself, claiming that he tried. By the time Martin Rocco got the door open, Palmer was gone, with nothing left but the clothes he was wearing in a pile on the floor, clumps of cosmetics staining every surface, and a trail of makeup-caked hand prints clawing the ground, begging to stay on this earth for just a bit longer.


DrApricus

More works by me can be found here!

Cradlesong: Part I

Department of Folklore Archives
"Demons: Teivel (1972)" — Published 2011

Ghosts and ghouls are nothing new to the SCP Foundation, but there's no time that exemplifies this quite like Halloween. The boundary between the spectral world and the mortal realm is at its weakest on the night of October 31st, when the nine rings of hell align and the blood moon shivers.
Much of the rural world falls victim to the specters that make it into our reality. Where the Foundation isn't, they are. Halloween, as we know it, has been an annual celebration since the 19th century, but it would never be quite the same in the town of Whynot after a vicious series of attacks in 1972. Whynot is a small, secluded town in middle-of-nowhere North Carolina.
In a cabin along the edge of the town lived an old, decrepit man. When he succumbed to a heart attack, his body was invaded by a demonic specter, Teivel. He was the youngest child of the omnipotent Mother Nature, and was sentenced to the lowest ring of the spectral realm after attempting a coup against her. It waited patiently until the night of Halloween.
Teivel scarred the members of the town that night, broadcasting his massacre throughout Whynot. He tortured and abducted women and children. To the people's dismay, few corpses of those harmed were initially found. A frustrated soul, it wished nothing more than violence on Mother Nature's greatest achievement. At least, that's what the staff at Site-50 say.
The "Spirit of the Trees" was known for his acts in the spectral world. His siblings and his tyrannical elder siblings. But never once had any of them attempted to access the mortal realm. When he returned to the specters, defeated, but paradoxically still victorious, he brought with him a squirrel, that was a happy little child just hours before. His mother shivered from her tower.
Police investigations never turned up any results. Slowly, the corpses of the children began washing up on rivers along the town throughout the coming years. Five decades forward and the case has long gone cold beyond the Veil. But the Foundation agents who fought the horrors that night won't soon forget the events of October 31st, 1972.
When the dust settled, Teivel remained trapped in the spectral realm by a tightly sealed coffin in an obscure town, sure to go unnoticed. As a precaution, the mausoleum containing it was covertly utilized as a mini-site to keep an eye on the demon's chamber. Over the years, though, it fell into decay as the spirit within made no attempts to rise to glory. Present day, we can only look forward, clear skies as far as the eye can see. We must leave the storms behind us.

Diane Moon—Hetfield
31/10/22, 1641 EST
2022. A thick fog has settled on the small town of Whynot by four in the afternoon. Brandon swings his dad's stiff, leather hoodie around to clear a visible path. It whips him a few times and throws his carelessly-woven hair about. Sometimes, I wonder if he's ever seen a horror movie. If he has, he should know this is how the side characters die. "What are we even doing out here?" I call out to him. The sun is still out, not that we can see it through the fog, so I'd think there'd be some sort of security officer lurking around the graveyard.
He turns around, walking backward with his hoodie balled in his hand, "The most interesting part of this town is this field. The dead grass, and the abundance of tombstones despite the town's small population. There's something other-worldly about the stuff you can find here." I roll my eyes. His pretentiousness irks me. I can't believe he dragged me into his escapades.
"Diane, trust me, this'll be fun," he grins. I raise my eyebrow, "You said the same thing when we broke into that old arcade. Guess what, I got tetanus. Not to mention… y'know. Also, why bring me along, anyway?" Brandon turns back around, continuing to carelessly fling about his hoodie, "You can pick locks. You're the brains here." I turn my head around me to face Jamison, who lingers behind both Brandon and me, invested in whatever music is blasting into his ears. When he lifts his head up to me, he simply shrugs.
"If I'm brains and Jamison is clearly the jock archetype, then what are you supposed to be?" Brandon doesn't appear to pay mind to the question, whereas Jamison appears personally hurt. I'm not wrong, though. After a moment, Brandon calls out, "The final boy." "Of course," I mumble. Guess he does watch horror movies.
"If you get me killed, I'll be so pissed," I call back after a minute. Eventually, his hoodie smacks a concrete wall, and he halts. Jamison pulls an earbud out of his left ear and his dumbass smile fades to a disgruntled frown, "What's the plan here, pal? Thought we were just seeing some gravestones or whatnot." His thick Australian accent makes almost anything he says incomprehensible.
Brandon climbs onto the windowsill of the mausoleum and picks up a flowerpot. "This sure seems like a good idea. This place isn't spooky at all," I groan. A crow swoops by and lands on the ledge of the structure's roof. It lets out a loud caw and I almost fall off my feet. "Looks like nobody's been here in decades," he chuckles as he jiggles the handle of the window, the flowerpot in his other hand, but can't seem to force it open. He changes the flowerpot to his other hand and smashes it against the stained-glass window.
He crawls through the window frame. Glass crunches as he lands on the marble floor of the mausoleum. The loud echo of his movements both in and out of the structure. Immediately, I notice the structure has been overrun with nature. Brandon watches his feet as he moves throughout the building, careful not to trip on any roots. Jamison nudges past me and hops onto the windowsill, "You just gonna stand there, D? Come on."
I walk up to the windowsill as Jamison hops through, and brush the glass debris from it with my sleeve. I sit on the frame and look inward, "I think I'll linger here. Finish your shenanigans and let's go, okay?" Brandon walks up to the coffin in the center of the structure and hops onto it. "Yeah, yeah, princess. We're just having some fun, no?" I roll my eyes at him again, "I have to accompany my brother when he goes trick-or-treating. Seriously, be quick."
"I don't have some agenda," Brandon mumbles, before turning his attention to a gold plate on it, "Hey, check this out." He reads out the plate, "Teivel," he raises an eyebrow as he catches the quote at the bottom, "I'm the ghost with the most, babe."
"Is that a reference to the folklore?" Jamison asks, leaning against the tightly-sealed door of the building. "You mean the one about the guy who—" Brandon begins, before I interject, "Yeah, we've all heard it." He pops the plate off and tosses it to me, to which it's dropped to the floor. "I think we should open it," he says slyly. Terrible idea. "Absolutely not," I scoff. He turns his head to Jamison, "What do you think?" Jamison shrugs, "Sure, why not." Brandon's perpetual grin has returned and he hops off of the coffin.
"How do you even open one of these?" Brandon grunts, trying to displace the top of the coffin. A creak from down the mausoleum echoes suddenly. I jump backward, my back hugging the wall. "You scared?" Jamison chuckles. I stiffen my face, "Of course not." He smirks, but before he can get out another word, Brandon barks at him, "Hey, Jamison! Come help me open this damn thing." He turns his attention from me and walks up to the coffin. A giant tree branch leans over it and against the wall, and the top of it is moist to the touch. Brandon revolts when he makes this discovery.
The top of the coffin refuses to nudge, and Jamison begins cursing under his breath as he pushes harder. Brandon walks around the side of it and backs up with a shocked expression. "What happened here?" he shouts to us. Hesitantly, I walk over to him and spot a series of ropes and branches running from the side of the coffin into the ground. There are some locks along the maze of rope. I almost chuckle, "I guess they want whatever's in here to stay in here." "Yeah, yeah, very funny," Brandon groans, "Did anyone bring a crowbar or something?"
Jamison appears from behind the coffin and walks up to the ropes, gesturing us away. He pulls a pocket knife from his shorts and hunches over the rope. As he's pretending to be useful, he casually says, "By the way, there's is a security guard after all. He's sleeping in the corner so don't wake him. Y'know?" Brandon and I are both startled by this, albeit relieved.
When I look around the corner, the police officer is lying against the wall. His eyes bulge and a river of dried vomit wraps around his head and runs onto the floor. You'd think he'd been here for months and his skin is almost frigid when I feel it. I nearly wretch in disgust.

He steps back in frustration, "Won't open!" I scoff, "Give me that." I can't take any more of his naivety. I command, seizing his pocket knife. I inspect it and find a weak point. I pick at it with the knife until it breaks loose. I pull the ropes and locks away and toss them aside. "Ain't that something," Jamison says, visually amazed. "I'll be outside," I mutter, setting the knife atop the coffin. "And here I thought you were starting to have fun," Brandon smirks. That douche.
I peer back over the coffin. I walk away from the two and over to where the officer is. I look down at him and immediately freeze. His skin is still pale but with a green hue and even greener, leafy veins running all throughout his visible skin.
My heart stops. The man is now entangled in the roots breaking found throughout the mausoleum floor. They flow over and throughout his body. I immediately shiver and turn back to Brandon and Jamison. I'm about to turn them right around and head home when Brandon pushes the coffin's top off. It clashes with the ground, making a loud thump. You know what, it's his funeral.
I crawl back through the window frame and land awkwardly on the dead grass. I sweep aside the glass on the ground, not so quietly, I might add. I sit against the outside of the mausoleum and pull out my phone. As I scroll through my notifications, I notice smudges of blood appearing on my phone. I gasp and drop it to the floor, and then I notice a voracious cut on my hand. "Shit," I shout under my breath.
My phone begins ringing as I ponder ways to shield the bleeding. I go to tap the answer button on my phone screen, but it doesn't register due to the blood smudges. The bleeding becomes more abundant and my vision goes blurry. Wrapping my hand in my sweatshirt, I manage to stammer out a call, "We need to go!" No response echoes back. "Hello?" I shout after a moment.
I begin to walk back to the windowsill when I hear a loud thump. My heartbeat grows faster and I raise myself up to peak into the structure, "Jamison? Brandon?" Nobody. The top of the coffin rests slanted on the floor. On the other side of the room, a previously boarded-up window is agape. I raise myself to the windowsill to get a full view of the interior. Still nothing.
That's when I feel something, like a feather, brush over my neck. I yelp and fall back off of the windowsill and fall to the ground, my ankle breaking my fall. "Damnit, Brandon!" I shout angrily, but when I can mount to a stand, there's nobody in sight. I almost stumble and a stabbing pain hits my foot as I try to walk. "This isn't funny, guys. Just stop already." When there's no response, not a sound, tears welt in my eyes, "Guys?"

Craig Hetfield, Assistant Researcher, Site-50
31/10/22, 1659 EST
"Look who finally made it," Director Boat grins as I close the metal door behind me. He wraps his arm over me and hands me a can of beer, "How's it goin', pal?" I take a look around the breakroom, where staff members are relaxing next to the television, conversing, and one group at the far right of the room is playing a game of beer pong.
"It's going good, director, sir. Thanks for asking," I flash a smile back. I crack open the beer can and take a sip. "Halloween, ay? Best time of the year," Boat cheers, unlatching his arm from around my shoulder, "Sean is by the fireplace, in case you're looking for him." I raise a thumbs up as the director walks off to the beer pong group.
On the television, a game of football is playing. I drop into an empty slot on the leather couch and ruffle Sean's hair. He turns his head from the television to me, "Oh hey! Took you long enough!" I chuckle, "Sorry I had to force you to watch American television," I say in a spooky voice. He rolls his eyes and leans further into the couch, "I forgot, this is your first Halloween at Site-50. You're probably a bit jarred."
When he stops talking, I nod presumptively and he continues, "On Halloween, we shut down all the containment areas because it's too risky to do any testing. Mobile Task Forces are out all night as well, so we're just left here with nothing to do." I tilt my head, "That… actually makes sense." He lets out a brief laugh and sips from a cup of whiskey, "Hey, you're really nursing that can, Craig."
I turn myself to face the television, and Sean mounts to a stand, "I'll be right back. I got a bet going with Dr. Know-It-All, so let me know if the Dolphins win!" He slides away into the mass of researchers, and at the same time, Dr. Riley appears behind me, "Hey, Dr. Hetfield," he rejoices, "I didn't expect you to come." "Well, if it isn't the litterbug himself," I say back. He hops over the couch and sits next to me, "You look stressed, bud. You gotta loosen up, you're always so uptight." "Yeah, I suppose," I take another sip of beer.
Riley pats me on the back and walks back into the mass of staff members. I rub the back of my neck as I stand up and nudge past a security officer. It's hardly nightfall and I already feel tired. I pass a trash can and drop the half-empty can into it.
Suddenly, my pocket begins vibrating and I reach for my phone. I answer the incoming call and raise the phone to my ear. My heart practically stopped as I heard the voice from the other side, my mind barely processing anything after the first few words. As quickly as I'd picked up, I was running back down the corridor. Back towards the party. The herald of horrid news. I nearly collided with Sean. The poor fellow fumbled with his drink, staring at me with concern. "What's wrong?" he asks. My phone drops from my hand and I rush out of the room. "Craig!" Sean calls behind me.
I swerve around, still hastily walking, "You know my neighborhood?" He appears puzzled for a minute, before stammering, "Uhm, uh— yeah. Why?" Now several meters from him and almost out of hearing range, I shout to him, "Get me a standard scan of it! Quickly, please!" "What's wrong?" he shouts back. "Teivel's tomb has been disturbed!"

Department of Folklore Publication
Excerpt from "Baseline Gods: Mother Nature" — Published 1999

Back in 2000 BCE, the kingdom of Weven was a glowing beacon of the spectral realm. Mother Nature was the only baseline god charitable enough to interact so closely with humankind. Within the kingdom, at its heart, her and her children, the soon inheritors of the natural thrones, dine.
Mother Nature's expression of pride in the future spirit of earth, Rhopa, sat next to the mother with rain pellets spilling under her plate, morphs into dismay when she sets her focus on the loneliest one. She worries for the little one, the other children come to her several times, saying they can't find him, saying he's disappeared again, saying he's turned into a squirrel and hid in the Yggdrasil.
In the seat furthest from the mother, the child bows his head down to the plate, shielding himself from view. "What's wrong, my little one?" the mother furrows, her angelic display of wings of shrill water. Little wooden boats, an artistic choice, flow along her oceanic body. The child turns his head to face down the hall. He resents his mother, he always had.
"Why is there never enough food on my plate?" he finally speaks. She scoots forward in her chair, "You have just as much food as your siblings. You still have some, in fact. If you're hungry, eat." "Mother, I am soon to be the spirit of the trees, you said that. Why must the trees get as much from you as the heir to humanity? Cyrus does not deserve as much as me!" Mother Nature appears aghast, raising herself from the table, and Cyrus lowers her head with a frown. "Apologize to your sister, Teivel. Now," Mother Nature speaks coldly.
She stands toweringly over him, she lowers one of her heads to him when he doesn't respond, "Well?" Teivel swivels himself around and murmurs to Cyrus. She murmurs back and resumes eating. "Can you two please be civil? One day, both of you will take over for the current spirits of the trees and humanity. I don't need any wars between you two. Eat." Both bow their heads in respect.
Teivel grimaces at his mother before fading into transparency. He was the only shapeshifter among the spectral children. A series of roots slowly sprout where he was sitting as he walks away from the table, not to the attention of the others. In the spectral realm, Mother Nature nurtured her children well.
But with him, it was different. Though she couldn't quite identify what, he irritated her every time he was in her presence. He made all of her eyes twitch like a parabellum. He inherited the power of dendrology when his predecessor, Euchevious, suffered permanent death.
He had always fantasized about the human world, the mortal realm. Maybe one day, he'd live in it. Maybe one day, he'd inflict pain on it. He'd always heard of that word, pain. An accidental creation by his mother. Euchevious was the only spirit to have ever actually lived among men while in power, and Teivel wished to follow in his footsteps. He wished to live among men, learn about men, and find the source of what makes them tick and what makes them stop.

Robert Moon—Hetfield
31/10/22, 1722 EST
"Where is she?" my mother grunts, leaning against the doorway. I'm sitting on the lawn outside our house in my Harry Potter costume. The end of the robe dips into a rush of water that runs down the edges of the road and into the storm drains. My mother is a real stickler for punctuality, and raising her kids to be so too, it's a bit jarring that Diane would be late.
Mom suddenly gets a call and she reaches for her phone, which is sitting on the railing, muttering something under her breath. "Hello?" she says, answering the call, "Oh, hey, Craig. Yeah, everything's fine, why?" After a moment of silence, she continues, "No, Rob's just sitting on the sidewalk waiting for his sister. Yeah, she's tardy. Mhm. Yes, that'd be a great help." After a moment of the other person talking, she hangs up and sets the phone back on the railing, shaking her head.
"I think she's out with her boyfriend," I call to her from the sidewalk. "What?" she retorts, "Diane doesn't have a boyfriend." "What about the guy? Y'know the kind of tall one, scrawny, with the fluffy brown hair?" I say, puzzled. Mom almost appears taken aback, "Brandon? No, she hates him." Odd, I've seen her out with him a few times. I keep checking down the road, expecting her to turn the corner on her bike with some logical reason for being late. "Have you tried calling her?" I say. "Yes, I have. She hasn't responded."
I fiddle with my toy wand impatiently, as I continue to look around. I notice the sun begins disappearing behind the houses and I become cross, "Mom! The sun is setting, I need to go trick-or-treating." She sighs, "Ugh, backburner, buddy. Uncle Craig is going to help us find Diane. All else fails, I'll take you trick or treating." I frown and scoot my shoes through the water running beside the cement.
After several minutes of waiting, my eyebrows furrowing further and further, a car I recognize pulls down the road. By now, kids and parents roam the streets in costumes and the neighborhood is alive with vigor. A distinct ocean blue Ford Flex pulls into our driveway and out steps mom's brother, Craig, who wipes a layer of sweat from his forehead with a cloth. He appears in costume, wearing a lab coat and salopettes.
He walks over to my mom and gives her a quick hug, "I have a pal of mine looking for Diane. You sure you don't have any clue where she is?" My mom shakes her head, "She headed out earlier today, and said she'd be out with friends but didn't specify." Craig rubs his eyebrows, pondering.
After a moment, he walks over to me and pats me on the back, "How's it going, little man?" I look up at him, "We're waiting for Diane." He looks at his phone before looking back at me, "Well, that might be a while. It might just be better if your mom takes you." Though, she's quick to interject, "I have somewhere to be in half an hour.
Maybe you could take him? My wife's on a work trip until Tuesday." Craig stands there for a moment, dotting his eyes about, before finally perking up, "Y'know, I suppose I could do that. How's that sound, bud?" I shrug in agreement, and he gestures for me to pick up my pillowcase, though a portion of which has settled into the water. I slug it over my shoulder and we begin down the road, I turn to wave to my mother but she has already retreated into the house.
As we're walking up to the first house, Uncle Craig lingers behind, checking his phone, and his face appears flushed and concerned. He catches me looking at him and gestures for me to continue up to the house, I do so. I decide it's in my best interest not to ask about what's wrong, enough's gone wayward tonight.
I knock on the home's rosewood door and a kind, old woman greets me with a smile on her face. "Trick or treat!" I shout. "Well, look at you. Aren't you just the most dotted little wizard!" she chuckles and tosses a bar of candy into my soaked pillowcase. I wish her a happy Halloween and run back down the lawn to meet Craig, who's on his phone. "What do you mean she was at Canyon Cross?" he says to the other person.
"What was that about?" I ask suddenly, which startles him and causes him to stuff his phone away. "One second," he murmurs to the other end. He looks at me blankly, before gesturing for me to continue down the road. "Hey, you can just keep going, I have to take a call so I might linger behind," he says as I walk forth.
He begins slowing down as I approach the next house, and then I hear him speak to the other end, in a low, quaking voice, "Teivel? We can get Mu-13 out here. It's going to be a long fuckin' night." I glance behind me and his face is as pale as a ghost.

Diane Moon—Hetfield
31/10/22, 2010 EST
My breathing is heavy as I lie against an upturned gravestone. I curse under my breath and peek over the concrete slab. Nothing. I can't shake that vivid sight. Moments prior, standing idly in the field, I swore I had seen a face. Through the mist, a decrepit, horrific face appeared, grinning at me. No torso, just a face. Flesh dripping from its forehead and chin, pitch black eyes, oil and blood spewing from its shattered, sharp teeth, and a slimy, wrinkly complexure to its untorn skin.
The face let out a dreadful, scratchy cackle, causing me to scream and fall to the ground on my sprained ankle. I could only hear one thing behind me as I began to run, "Nature is beautiful, ain't it? You should be more…" I couldn't catch the last part. In a flurry of panic, I dashed across the field in a half-limp, half-sprint until I could take refuge behind the gravestone.
Now here, I barely had a moment to catch my breath before I realized how colossally screwed I am. I have gone insane. What am I supposed to say when I get home? No matter how hard I try to rationalize that image of the face though, lack of sleep, my new medication, possibly a fever, but then again, it still feels too real. I can't shake the coldness of its breathing on my skin or the sheer ringing in my ear from its laugh. No, no. What have I been brought into?
Suddenly, I can hear a helicopter fly over. Its blades cutting through the air shake me. I wonder what it is, it sounds as if it's flying lower than usual. A hospital helicopter, perhaps? With a shred of prayer, I call out into the sky for help. I shout, hoping someone will aid me.
I should just collect myself. It's Halloween night, so I'm just more spooked than usual. Yeah, that's it. Deep breaths, Diane. I peek over the concrete again and see a series of newfangled bootprints. They strike my interest and after a second of hesitation, I clamber to my feet, groaning as I briefly put pressure on my ankle.
I walk forth through the fog, my eyes traced on the bootprints. They continue out of the tombstones and down the hill, to which I follow them. A light in the distance, soon a bunch of lights, becomes apparent. As I continue to naively follow the prints, I realize I am nearing the road. Eventually, I hear the sound of police sirens, then the sound of people, the sound of cameras, and the sound of gasps and screams. And then I finally reach the scene. I gasp, taken aback, and look at the ground, where the bootprints have vanished.
Jamison is skewered on the fencepost surrounding the graveyard. A pool of blood surrounds him and dips onto the sidewalk. A crowd of people and officers have already gathered. I don't have enough time to turn and run, realizing how incriminating it is for me to be there, when someone takes note of me. "Hey, you!" one of the people shout. Shit.
I backpedal and break into a dash, adrenaline pounding through my veins, ignoring my injuries. I hear someone climb the fence, but by now I am already back up the hill. For a moment, I consider stopping. What if they want to help? No, I can't risk it, people aren't thinking rationally tonight. I know this town like the back of my hand.
I've long forgotten the layout of the graveyard by now, but I attempt to find the mausoleum. I run through the randomly organized gravestones until I can make out a cubic structure. A shout from behind me lets me know someone is still hot on my tail. With too little time to think, I hop through the mausoleum window and hide behind the opened coffin.
After a flashlight passes over my head and I can catch my breath, I raise myself back up. I look inside the coffin, which I finally notice is empty. "There's no way," I growl under my breath. I'm ready to scream in frustration when I hear the sound of glass breaking down the mausoleum hall; the main door is being opened. "Oh for Christ's sake," I mutter as I duck into the corner of the room. I shut my eyes tightly and imagine my mother hugging me closely. I hold my hand over my mouth as I inhale and exhale deeply.
Before I can react, the coffin beside me collapses into the ground. The floor gives way under it and it falls into the basement floor, a floor I didn't know existed. I stay huddled in the corner as a person, followed by another two people with flashlights, who rush in to investigate, and have been chasing after me. They look into the hole before leaving the room without another word. I breathe a sigh of relief. But then I see a glowing, green smog flow out of the coffin and out of the hole.
"What the hell is down there?" I mutter once the three people have evacuated. I peer over the hole and see what looks like a sort of library. Manic drawings are scrawled across the floor and there is an open crate of guns against a shelf. I don't have enough time to analyze the room further as the smog is rising above the hole and I am forced to leave the mausoleum.

The Account of Agent F401, Former Mu-13 Agent
Documented 02/09/98

Few of the staff members who worked on Halloween, 1972 are still with the Foundation. All that's left of that horrific night is whispers and this-that that echo in the halls of Site-50. Erected in the late 19th century, Site-50 had been on the forefront of spectral combat. And yet, even Teivel gave them a run for their money.
It's because when they first met him, they underestimated him. Most specters are humanoid, or mammalian, in material form. Not Teivel. Teivel was a shapeshifter, with no set mass. You only saw what he wanted you to see, and the Foundation only fought what he wanted them to fight. Whynot, although they didn't know it, had the strongest spectral protection money could buy; the best Mu-13 division in the country. That squad leader was deployed that night to watch his own men die.
Maybe the folklore about him is true, maybe he is the child of Mother Nature. Or maybe he's some bitch with a vengeance. In 1972, Whynot's nearest Mu-13 squadron was commanded by Regional Officer Jonathan Boat, now Site-50's Director.
Disguised as a police squadron, the Mu-13 squad arrived at the foot of the neighborhood. The squad leader stepped out of the car at the front of the battalion holding a duffel bag. Armored operatives in the back of a SWAT van settled out and conjoined behind the leader. After lagging behind, the leader's second stepped out of the front car and walked up to the leader, "Boat, it's this house," he said. He pointed to a cabin left of them, not surrounded by any other houses. The leader nodded and gestured for the armored operatives to surround the cabin.
The operatives complied and one stepped up to the front door with a battering ram slung over his shoulder. He handled it and prepared to breach, finally busting the door in. In a haze, the flurry of men stormed the stronghold to find it empty. Only, in the center of the living room, was the corpse of an old man, the home's owner, long dead.
They vacated the stronghold, where Boat was conversing with his second. "Two children? We'll start with the last sighting of the second child," he said as they approached. "Nothing," they said affirmatively. Boat nodded, "We have two cases of juvenile disappearances in the town, undoubtedly correlated to whatever is happening." As if continuing the rest of the conversation through eye contact, the operative at the front eventually nodded, and the rest tailing behind him walked back to the van.

Craig Hetfield, Assistant Researcher, Site-50
31/10/22, 2034 EST
I try to shake the memory. Dad would always tell my sister and me fictional stories of ghosts, goblins, ghouls, and things that made no sense here on Earth. As his eldest sibling, I naturally followed in his footsteps, and eventually learned ol' pops wasn't as creative as I gave him credit for. I start to get lost in thought when a helicopter flies over. A rope ladder swings out and two men slide down, one I recognize as Sergeant Trepp, and the other one is covered head-to-toe in tactical gear. Rather than leave, the helicopter stays there and the ladder remains extended to the ground.

"Hey, Craig," Trepp says, extending his arm. I shake it and I'm about to begin rambling when he stops me short, "We're going, now." The operative stands beside the ladder with his rifle held in both arms across his chest. "Wait, what?" Before I can get another word out, he silences me again, "Get on the damn helicopter and you'll see what I mean." I climb atop, through the fog and strong winds. When I finally reach the top I settle into the back of the helicopter. He faces me outward, looking over Whynot. The helicopter rises higher into the air.
And then I see it. A green glow under the layer of fog, coming from the center of the town. Large roots with veins of glowing pus run from the unknown source. Malformed swamp trees stand slanted away from the center. They extend outward and appear to be growing. Trepp walks back from the cockpit where he was talking to the pilot and kneels down beside me, "Buddy, this ain't 1972."
"Where are we headed?" I ask. And at that moment, I hear a chilling fluctuation in the wind. Almost as if it was a laugh, a cackle. The trees vibrated and rejoiced at once as the sun, from the view of the helicopter, set behind the horizon and out of view entirely. The moon rose to the sky in a scene of ambience.
He answers coldly, "Out of here, that's where. We're getting everyone out of here." He begins to walk back to the cockpit when he turns his head back to me for a moment, "Also, you might want to find a seat, we're expecting some turbulence."

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Cradlesong

Turbulent Winds