Work Journal 2 - SCP Foundation

Day 45

It's so strange, at times. Sitting where my father once sat, working at the same battered, second-hand desk, sifting through the notes black with his nearly indecipherable scrawl. He always complained at how his brain outstripped his hands. He'd tape hours and hours of audio, but some masochistic urge seemed to compel him to transcribe everything to hard copy. I suppose it worked out for me… the notes in this old desk are all I have left now.

I remember first finding these… the attic office had been closed up by mom since dad vanished… along with every scrap of research and identification. He'd just… dropped out of the world. Mom… went crazy. She called everyone, everywhere, the university, the police, even dad's office at InTENergy, nobody had seen him. It's like he'd packed up all his work, and just stepped out of time and space.

This is supposed to be a work journal, but I think, with the subject matter, I should be allowed a little digression. Mom… is in the hospital again. This might be the last time. She was so connected with dad… it's not even that she snapped when he left, it was just… a whole part of her was missing now, like a limb gone… and she just bled out through it. She seems calmer now… but that just might be the medication. On the positive side, I can come in here without her going into hysterics now. I do wish, however, that it didn't have to be this way.

Anyway, on to the actual work? Lovely.

It seems that dad was working on some very, very obscure stuff. Basically, it looks like he was theorizing about reality, states of matter and being, and the idea that was we see and interact with, along with what we theorize to be the building blocks of reality are really no more valid than how much we feel they are. It's… dizzying. I vaguely remember some of this from back when dad was still teaching. He got stuck on an idea… I really didn't understand it at the time, but I remember dad fighting with the other professors. Someone called him a crank once, when they were over visiting… dad yelled, and nobody really visited from the university anymore.

It's odd how, looking back, I can remember things in context now. At the time, “tenure review” didn't mean anything to me, but now I realize that dad must have really miffed some people off. That was about par, though. He was a real “nutty professors” type, would get lost for days in a project until mom or someone dragged him back out… and never thought of the political side of things… that what he was doing might actually upset some people.

I'm wandering again. In truth, there's no heavy, startling revelations for the day. However, I did find an odd notation on the back of a note. It referenced someone named Professor Kanin, with some kind of code that I assume is an email address or contact information. It's the best lead I have so far, which is really quite sad.

Day 49

Checked up on the Professor Kanin thing. It goes to a now-defunct email address based out of a university in Ireland. I did some checking, and apparently this Kanin was doing a lot of out-there research as well, but on the less theoretical side, looking for new ways to approach things like biology and engineering… and he's apparently been missing for almost as long as dad has. Vanished one day, no note, no body, all his research cleared from his home and office… just gone.

I'm starting to get a little nervous. Hearing that, and crawling through the oddness of dad's notes… it's hard not to get paranoid. I caught myself looking over my shoulder more than once the last few days… feeling eyes on me or some such. I keep trying to ignore it, but there it is. Dad was a bit paranoid as well, if I recall… never let any of his in-progress stuff anywhere near shared labs or work areas… mom forbade him from putting a full lab upstairs, but all his theoretical work was poured out on his ranks of white-boards and legal pads.

I've been in this stupid library from open to close for nearly two days now. It's hard to know even what to ask for… more than once, I've found myself in the fiction section, reading up on topics that only appear in sci-fi stories… or horror ones. Some of the things he theorizes… things that can slide between here and elsewhere as easy as we pass through air… but insulated by a membrane of this “otherwhere”, they'd be nearly untouchable in our reality. He actually says: “The interaction of different bioforms in our own reality is not one paved with compassion and ease of interaction. Let us hope the natives of these far spheres are friendly.”

Greg called me, again. Asked if I wanted to get out for a bit, have a drink maybe. I turned him down. Again. I feel bad, but… I can't just let this sit. I tried to talk to him about all… this, but he just nodded and looked sympathetic. I can't get people to understand… a whole part of my life was just… ripped out. I can't just drop it… I can't just let it go. I catch myself getting… disconnected. Like dad used to sometimes… so focused, things like food or… emotional attachment just fade in terms of priority. Even worse… I sometimes find myself welcoming it.

Anyway. I have all the copies and books I'll need right away, and a few I ordered should be here within the week. I have vacation time saved up with the university, and there's no active projects at the lab that need my direct oversight… so I'll hopefully be able to track this thing to ground… maybe get closure. I don't know. I keep wondering what I'll do if it turns out that dad just ran out on us… or ended up in a ditch somewhere… but I don't think that's the case.

Maybe I'll take some time and yell at my cell phone company… I keep getting this weird clicking when I'm on a call. It's been going on for nearly three days now. To add even more to my paranoia, it started about the same time I emailed Kanin. I think, more than a tin-foil hat, I really need to get some rest.

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Work Journal 2 (cont.)

Or turn back while you can.

Splinters