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⚠️ I have an Author Page!

The following is the translation of an account written in mid-to-late 1694 by a Dutch occultist named Hubert van der Miir, recovered from Leiden University by Foundation researchers. Some portions of the document are illegible, but the remainder is transcribed verbatim. It has been belatedly titled De Heks in Het Bos (The Witch in the Woods).

14th June, in the year of our Lord Sixteen-hundred Ninety-four

I am still awed by the great missive set before me. I do not recall what fortune or action led me to earn such esteem or responsibility— I had thought my previous works heretical, the mutterings of a zealot driven mad by his zealotry— but evidently, whether by the grace of providence or chance, they were sufficient to draw the attention and approval of none other than Heinsius1 himself! I say "approval" only because, under any other circumstance, I likely would have been jailed or killed for my accounts, but matters have changed such that what was once wild (or mad!) may benignly be called "a new normal". I am referring to the events that transpired in England's colonies a year prior: the so-called Salem Witch Trials.

Whatever madness or zealotry I may be accused of cannot fathom a tithe of this aforementioned crucible. Tortures and deaths, "spectral evidence", malice, fear and loathing. Though even the humblest simpleton scoffs at the news from abroad, Heinsius is taking no chances. Not a single spark of Salem's conflagration is to cross the ocean and reach our land; hence, one who has dabbled in such affairs would be best suited to identify them — and, if at all possible, by the grace of God, snuff it out. It is not a task a sane, healthy man would be suited for. At least I shall have the coffers of the good Netherlands and her allies to aid me, so there is that.

By God in heaven, where do I begin?

Hubert van der Miir

16th June, " "

Will be brief. Spent much of last two days fretting over question left hanging in previous entry. Shameful. Took to streets and spoke to trusted friends regarding missive, Salem, similar happenings, etc. Was told in no uncertain terms to attempt taverns, sewing circles, sanatoriums, schoolyards. Bah! Reminded them of Salem again, popular reply was "it'll never happen here". And what if it DID, I pressed? They could not give me an honest answer. Day wasted, went to a tavern in defeat. Owner more sympathetic. Suggested I go to a house in the hinterlands. Said I'd understand when I got there. Better than nothing.

H. vd M.

Note: The next several entries detail van der Miir's attempts at uncovering anomalous phenomena local to The Netherlands, including encounters with a child suffering from ichthyosis ("The Reptile Boy") and a sanatorium patient suffering from hemovorous behavior and porphyria ("The Vampire"), as well as multiple false trails. Due to their irrelevance, they have been omitted, but anyone wishing to examine them may contact Site-278 Senior Researcher Offet. The presented document resumes as van der Miir comes across something pertaining to the anomaly in question.

2nd October, " "

Not sure how Heinsius feels about my results. Should he be relieved that our country is not beset by specters or witches, that reason and Christianity prevails, that there is no threat save for the ones man himself imposes? Or frustrated, as I am, that this was all a waste of time and resources, and I should be consigned to the stockades, or the sanatorium, or some distant college to rot in obscurity?

I oftentimes wonder where and how these superstitions come about. Can there be real fairies and monsters lurking outside the scope of society, a fringe group poised to invade at a moment's notice, held back only by strength of arms—or reason? Or are these merely minnows people disguise as whales? Could Oedipus's sphinx had been real? Could Garm and Fenrir from our northern cousins have originated from common wolves? Even today, the Irish swear to hear the bean sidhe before a funeral, or the footsteps of luchorpan around barrows. When I was a boy, I recall an old Russian woman telling stories of Baba Yaga with the conviction of one delivering a sermon on Christ. What sort of veil parts the mundane from the fantastic, and how does one penetrate it? "They had to have come from somewhere," a drinking-companion told me earlier. But does truth sire fiction, or the other way round? I know I need rest but feel I am the cusp of something grand, like peering over a high wall to catch a glimpse at the other side.

I would like to take a walk tomorrow to clear my head.

H. vd M.

Note: The following entries are not included in van der Miir's original account. They were recovered from a second document, discovered in the Wanderer's Library by a Foundation member who chooses to remain anonymous.

3rd October, " "

I have discovered a forest that I had no prior knowledge of, nor is it mentioned on any map or geographical report of Holland. Curious. Merely standing at a distance from it makes me yield to fear and uncertainty, such as I have not known for decades. I am willing to plumb its depths for my missive, if only so I can dispel any myths and hang the hat of Reason upon it. I shall go in first thing tomorrow, in the full light of day, and make preparations and inquiries at the nearest village in the meantime. No doubt the locals will weave colorful stories.

If this wood be the death of me, I have entrusted a copy of this account to the innkeeper at De Slimme Meid2. She is to forward everything to my patron, Anthonie Heinsius, if I am not returned within the week. God be with me in the meantime!

H. vd M.

4th October, " "

The forest seems to be mocking me as I make my way inside. I wish to pause every hour to collect and record my thoughts, but upon my first respite, the path which I had thought I was following had changed. My compass, bought at a heavy price from a surly merchant, is useless, unless True North is wont to alter. I had thought myself mad before: no, no, I was but a boy at play in my ravings. The forest issues true insanity, shaping and reshaping itself, clearing paths and obscuring paths, showing me gentle rivers one instant—and the other, a grim ravine, like the mouth of a demon. I stared into its black depths overlong, and must have gotten addled by my experience, for I believed there were arms stretching out from the pit, groping for me. I quit the place at once and found a stone bier to sit upon, then prayed myself into weariness. I don't dare sleep. I hear the song of birds I don't recognize, and see deer in the distance, but such deer as no hunter has beheld before, with eyes the size of apples and antlers that sway like the boughs of a willow. I chanced across a spider's web large enough to ensnare a hound, and the weaver herself… I dare not say it. I am tempted to shut my eyes and grope my way forward, but then I recall the ravine, and [Illegible] carcass along the path, of an animal I did not recognize. Tiny creatures that stood on two legs surrounded it, armed with spears. I did not dare approach or call out: indeed, there was little that I ventured in those woods, so astonished with dread. I ration my food carefully, and though there are berries and mushrooms such as I recognize, I don't dare consume them. At desperation I attempted the waters of a river, half-hoping and half-dreading it was Lethe, that I may forget. I did not.

I cannot count the hours or the days. It cannot still be October 4th, of that I am certain, for I have been in these woods too long. Day and night cycles still but it becomes difficult to distinguish the two the further I walk. I do not see the stars through the canopy of leaves. I once observed a squirrel climb a trunk, and felt relieved to see something so ordinary in this dreary place — only to discover the bloody remains of a human hand in its mouth. I also met a bear — at a safe distance — it shuffled along heedless to my presence, then ducked inside the cleft of a stone bluff. When I passed the same area, I saw no opening in the rock, nor even a trace of the animal itself. Very curious.

Woken up by strange singing. Air was frigid. Covered in sweat. Don't recall falling asleep. Fog everywhere. Heard thunder just now. Recited the Lord's prayer, managed to build a fire. A face stared up at me from the sparks; I ran away until I was breathless. More singing. More fog. I said the Lord's Prayer again and stumbled about as though drunk. Would that I were back at that sanatorium now! Their inane babbling and tormented wails would be a comfort to me. I dare not stop or close my eyes, but my body betrays me. I am weary, yet driven by some wild desire. Only just now, when I have stopped to catch my breath, do I realize that everything I have written in the past few days (or hours? Or weeks?) will be lost. No human eye will ever read this. These journals will be lost to whatever force permeates this forest, as I am now lost. Well, so be it. I need not fear any reprisal. No King, judge, or statesman would harass me here! How odd, that on the verge of losing my mind and possibly my soul, do I feel the most free. I decided to give in to base desires and danced about, singing the bawdiest drinking-song I knew. Pitiless sanity soon took my hand and led me back into the abyss.

A human face. The spider I saw earlier had a human face—or so I believed. My newfound freedom permits me say what my gentleman's restraint would not. Human face.

Why did the cockerel cross the path? Because someone paid it to.

Note: Three full pages with the words "Hubert van der Miir" written on them follow this entry. Two more pages are torn out, with only the word "malice" remaining.

Unknown day, unknown month, unknown year. Unsure if I am still in Holland, or Europe, or even this world. I am definitely being watched. The trees have eyes. I don't mean this metaphorically: I mean there are eyes like an animal's embedded in the bark, and the branches, and the roots, and upon the leaves. There are shapes in the rivers culled from nightmares. There is laughter. I can hear something groaning. The light that pours in through the canopy is unnatural, bent, and sickly. I cannot remember the last time I ate, or what it was that I consumed, or how I am still kept alive. Perhaps the forest itself is maintaining me—but for what purpose?

I have dared the darkness, and it has responded in kind. I sought, and I have found. I went looking for the unnatural and I have been led into its heart. There are bones of humans and animals fastened to hills. There are creatures with glowing eyes, studying me. I thought I saw a man in the distance, but it was only a tree—and yet when I chanced to turn around, the tree was gone. I saw roots lifting up as something turned a corner, and debated giving chase. I forgot my duty and ran instead.

Is it even possible for me to leave? Whatever oaths bound me to my missive no longer exist — indeed, nothing outside of the forest exists now, but me. I am becoming a part of it: that is why I cannot leave. I desire progression, to peer over the wall — and to go beyond it — to cast aside the veil and immerse myself in that which hovers at the edge of our minds. I wish to know horrors. No, I wish to be freed from this place! I despise it! But I must go on. Have to. Can't leave. Can't stay. I think [Illegible]

But beckoned by whom, or what?

How is it that I still have the ink and implements to even write anymore? My supplies are gone, save for the satchel I used to carry them. No ink no quill no food no money plenty of water and prayers at least Hubert van der Miir Good! I am not wholly lost! I still remember my name! Hubert Hubert Hubbert Hebert Heebert Hribrlt H—

I don't remember falling asleep. [Illegible] not Lethe but something else. Ha! Perhaps I'm in an ordinary Dutch forest, and the water is the cause for my hallucinations! What a droll concept! Yes: or else I never left the sanatorium. Good vampire, if you or my host should read this, I urge you, knock twice on the wall of your cell, so that I may know we

My God. I heard knocking. I am reduced to tears. What is this place?

952nd of Maycember, in the Year of Our Fish 1973.

H

U

B

E

R

T

Note: A dried smear of blood follows each letter.

Test complete, experiment successful. Pain clarifies matters. Hubert van der Miir. Not lost in the woods. Not anymore. I never was. I was going exactly where I was meant to be. I followed the path perfectly. I was beckoned here. I was, pardon the blasphemy, fated to be here. God in Heaven, or some other unknown power, bade me come, and revealed the way. All for me. All so I could come here and show the world what awaited behind the wall. Not long now. I'll be there soon, I can feel it. I have to be. It's all I have left. [Illegible]

riimrednavtrebuh

Final entry.

I have come across a wondrous cabin in the forest. This is my destination, there is no doubt. Its walls are gingerbread, its roof peppermint, its door a honeycomb, the chimney is plum pudding, the foundations cake, the windows treacle. I broke off a piece and tasted it. Softly, but distinctly, I heard a voice from inside the cabin:

"Nibble nibble at my house, nibble nibble like a mouse."

I know I will die if I go through that door, but I am compelled to do nothing else. Thankfully, most of this manuscript remains at De Slimme Meid — but alas, the best of it dies with me! Unless some other wretched soul should come through these woods and chance upon this document — I pray they do not, no man deserves this torment — but perhaps it is better this way. Let the knowledge of this damnable forest die with me! I consign myself to God, and to the goodness of the world, or what little there is left. I regret naught but that I did not marry: alas!

I knock: it opens. Farewell!

Note: The second account concludes with this entry.

Note: The original account resumes, and concludes, with this entry.

5th October, in the year of our Lord Sixteen-hundred Ninety-four

I awoke to find myself in my bed at De Slimme Meid, alone. There were implements about me suggesting that I was suffering from ague, or an illness, or some other malady. I felt cold, weak, and rather hungry, but not entirely bewildered. I resolved to test my strength and found it wanting, but not so much that I could not rise. I could not stand, however, and decided to lay there in patience until I was tended to again. A physician entered about ten or fifteen minutes later, relieved that I looked well, and gave me drink and medicine. He explained that I had been seen outdoors earlier today, well before dawn, standing lifeless and dazed before a small, lonely tree. As I did not respond to any voice, I had to be carefully removed and lain in bed until I should come to my senses. I have to admit, I do not feel entirely sensible even as I write, but God willing, I shall pull through, as I have no other hurt to account for. I cannot remember going out, whether today or yesterday, nor do I recall having any interest in trees or other such foliage, as I had been scouting for rumors of superstitious transpirings. The account of my travels and discoveries was returned to me, as I requested to examine it in hopes of piecing together this new mystery, but my last entry merely details my need for a walk. Ha! Perhaps my head was cleared overmuch, and I had not a thought left in my brain to keep me company as I beheld that humble sapling! I inquired about nearby forests, all the same, and was told there were none to be found for half a score of miles and more. This was a farming-town, not a foresting one, and if it was glenns or groves I sought, well…

When I am left alone to ponder, I feel there is something missing. I had no adventures the good innkeep was aware of, save for those prior to my arrival, and none of my effects were missing. My journal is as I have left it, barring [Illegible] owed for my stay. Yet my thoughts linger on the blankness. To borrow from my earlier analogy, it is as though there had been a chink in the wall, lately covered and concealed. A casual observer would see nothing amiss, but to peer close, and to keep peering…

No matter, I have other matters to attend to. I've caught stories of paintings come to life, and statues that bleed, and (ho ho, the bile rises!) covens of witches in Scotland, and wild men on lonely islands, and actors being turned into donkeys, and ghosts of murdered fathers. Wretched drunkards gorged on those foul plays from Stratford!—but it may yet be a welcome reprieve. I feel I have earned a good laugh. And who knows? There could be a grain of truth even in the rotten state of Denmark!

Ever onward, H

P.S. Strange. I cannot seem to recall [Illegible]

Two days after reviewing the document in full, MTF Beta-777 (Hecate's Spear) was assigned a nationwide search of thaumaturgical activity within forested regions of the Netherlands. Six days into this search, in an unrelated incident, Delta-4 (Minutemen) was dispatched to a small college town in Monaghan County, Ulster, Ireland, where one Foundation agent, six dogs, and one cockerel were observed running laps on a racetrack in one Emain University. The agent, Bradley Derfield, was initially unresponsive, and was quickly transported to the nearest Foundation medical facility for observation; the seven accompanying animals were also detained.

Following investigation, it was discovered that the animals were in the possession of various Foundation-issue dog tags belonging to an MTF local to that area, Pi-173 (Hounds of Chulainn), which Agent Derfield was also a member of. During his examination, Derfield complained of excruciating abdominal pains, as well as pelvic and genital pain; the medical team concluded that these were phantom pains. These phantom pains continued for five days before clearing. When interrogated, Agent Derfield did not recall when or how he had arrived at Emain University, or for what purpose, nor could he recall any of his actions closer than two days prior to the incident. Agent Derfield had no knowledge of the seven animals, assuming that they belonged to students or visitors at Emain University. He was not informed of the seven Foundation-issue dog tags, nor did he make any inquiries about the whereabouts of his team, assuming he had lost them. Agent Derfield was subsequently amnesticized and reassigned, and the missing members of Pi-173 were replaced. The seven animals currently remain in Foundation care.

Shortly after this incident, it was discovered that "Emain University" was not a registered university of Ireland, nor of any known country. An inquiry was made, and a specialist of the occult and thaumaturgical history was assigned by O5-4 and O5-5 for a conclusive investigation. The specialist (Senior Researcher Phillipe Offet) was given a copy of van der Miir's journal, including the "missing" papers found in the Wanderer's Library, and a set of coordinates pointing him to the western region of the country of Georgia. He was specifically instructed to go by ship, and set off from Corsica, where he had been previously stationed. During the voyage, he drafted an SCP document. The following is the aforementioned document, unedited and written entirely in context.

Item #: SCP-XXXX (number pending)

Object Class: Pending (Euclid?)

Special Containment Procedures: The SCiP in question is currently uncontained, undiscovered, and unconfirmed. An investigation is currently underway, with Senior Researcher Offet traveling to the western region of Georgia (country) on Overseer orders.

Description: Based on all current information, the anomaly in question is hypothesized to reside within

I was wondering who they'd send.

Unable to delete, alter, or strike though previous comment, origin unknown. Will revise in second draft.

Don't bother. But do go on, boy. Describe me in your document.

test test test 12345 abcdefg. The anomaly in question is

Much older, smarter, and stronger than you, boy—or your Foundation. Ah, are you sitting there dumbstruck? Perhaps I should allow this exchange to continue so you may go through the remaining stages of emotional duress. We've already covered Denial, so next would be Anger.

The anomaly in question is hypothesized to reside within an unknown or undiscovered Danish forest

Well, if you're not delving into anger, then I will—or at least impatience. I pray you're not being impertinent on purpose. You don't want me as an enemy.

May I communicate with you this way?

Acceptance already? I've underestimated you! Very well, you may.

How did you gain access to my laptop? Only Foundation members with special clearance may use this service.

I am aware. Yet here we are. Now to turn stars into constellations.

You've gained control through thaumaturgical means.

How very Socratic of you.

You're "De Heks in Het Bos", the witch in the woods.

In a manner of speaking. Names and locations are irrelevant to me.

I've been sent to find you. Do you wish for us to meet?

Yes.

Am I headed in the right direction?

Seek, strive, find, not to yield.

How shall I address you?

You may call me Viviane if you wish, or Macha. Did you enjoy that little race?

So that was you. And "Macha", is it? Interesting.

Look overboard, boy. Quite a number of fish in the sea, aren't there? Bream, goby, mackerel, bonito…herring.

I understand.

Good. Let's leave it at that; we wouldn't want to overindulge. You may have your device returned to you. I am as a fakir, meditating quietly upon pins and needles.

test test test 12345 abcdefg

Well. That will suffice for a description at the moment!

Addendum: How did O5-4 and O5-5 know where to send me? I know they're Overseers, but what were they able to piece together that no one else could? Van der Miir's account omitted the actual encounter with the "witch". Do the O5s know this entity? At this point, I wouldn't be surprised. I don't know where I'll be going once I arrive: perhaps I'll be beckoned as well? Here's hoping my journey is more pleasant than Mr. van der Miir's.

[BEGIN RECORDING]

Twentieth of March, twenty twenty-three, audio recording of Philippe Offet, Senior Researcher for Site two seventy-eight of the SCP Foundation. I'll be supplementing my findings, if any, with these tapes. I'm not sure what good it'll do, especially if this anomaly is capable of overtaking my personal laptop — along with heaven knows what else — but maybe it'll give me peace of mind. Arrived in Georgia, and thankful the Foundation gave me a good translator. Not too many people speak French or English here. Got plenty of money, so getting to where I need to go shouldn't be an issue. The coordinates Oh-Five-Four and Oh-Five-Five gave me have me heading a bit further east, away from the harbor. I'll probably take a public transit there; I'm not too fond of cabs. Honestly not sure what I'll find, but…chin up.

[END RECORDING]

[BEGIN RECORDING]

Twentieth of March, evening. Found a good hotel, uh…hope I pronounce this right: Okros Tskhvari. It's not too late in the day, but like my, uh, predecessor, I'd prefer to start my search in the morning, so I'll bed here for the night. I'll upload all my audio logs to the Foundation cloud so we don't have a repeat of van der Miir's issues. I'm also going to email my written reports to three different sources, one being Oh-Five-Four's personal secretary. I don't want to take any chances. I wonder what Georgians eat for dinner. Hmm, can't wait to try it.

[END RECORDING]

[BEGIN RECORDING]

Still the twentieth, night. Well, I couldn't begin to pronounce what they fed me, but it was damn good food. Home-cooked and everything. Heh, I can't remember the last time I ate a home-cooked meal. Inferior wine, but in their defense, I am Corsican. I asked a few people about my destination, but all they could tell me was that it was pretty deep in the country, nestled around the Caucasus mountains—sort of out of the way of everything. That's red flag number one, but I knew the risks when I took this assignment. I then asked about any local lore, but they seemed more interested in real-world politics than ghost stories. Fair enough. About ready to turn in for the day, so…

On a side note, I can't help but feel a sense of deja vu: an occultist traveling far out of his way to investigate rumors of witches, he finds an inn, the locals aren't much help, he purchases supplies and then goes all "heart of darkness"… History repeats itself. The only question is, am I the tragedy or the farce?

Signing out for the day.

[END RECORDING]

[BEGIN RECORDING]

Twenty-first of March, evening. Made a lot of progress, but found nothing. Got off at the last station and had to walk the rest of the way. It's fine, I could use the exercise, and the mountains are nice, if you're into that sort of thing. They're no Alps, but… Anyway, I should be pretty close by this time tomorrow. Sending everything now before I forget.

Okay, all good. Audio logs and written reports were received. No hotels in the area, but I'm not afraid to rough it. Weather's chilly, but I'll put up with it. Signing out.

[END RECORDING]

[BEGIN RECORDING]

Twenty-second of March, evening. Still nothing. Just a little while to go before I arrive at the coordinates. Damn country roads. Of course the trains would cut off this far away. Still not sure why I needed to come here by boat when I could've just taken a helicopter. I don't think I did anything to piss off the Oh-Fives. (sighs) It's fine. I just…

[Inaudible]

Signing out.

[END RECORDING]

[BEGIN RECORDING]

Okay, I think I'm here. Uh, twenty-third of March, time is…not showing up on my watch. Or my phone. Or anything else I have on me, which is strange, since this is all Foundation issue—or maybe it's just a good sign. Yeah. Let's call it that for now. I'm in what looks like an open-air amphitheater, but it's in bad shape. Everything's crumbled to pieces, overgrown with moss, lichen, and ivy. Ruins. If I had to hazard its age, I'd say it was anywhere between a thousand and fifteen-hundred years old. I'm going to keep my recorder on, just in case.

I'm taking a look around. The air feels different here — heavy. It's a bright day out, a few clouds in the sky… Feels odd. I can't really explain it; it feels cold without it actually being cold. It's not exactly disquieting — I've got my sidearm and a few interesting gadgets for that sort of thing — it just feels…ancient, I suppose. Anachronistic, that's the word I'm looking for: like this place doesn't belong here. A lot of Georgia definitely feels agrarian, let's say, but this predates that. Hmm, I just remembered that the Celts had actually made it this far east, and some even went on into Turkey. Maybe that's why it feels so old. No, this definitely predates that. I don't know why I'm so hung up on this; maybe I'm just looking for s—

[a hissing and snarling sound is heard]

Shit, it's a snake. Big one, like an anaconda or a python, but even larger than that. Three times as big, at least. It definitely sees me, but it hasn't attacked yet. Drawing my weapon. I'll shoot it if it gets too close. Uh—!

[three gunshots are heard]

Okay, I hit it. It's down. (sighs) And that, ladies and gentlemen, is red flag number two. Snakes that big don't live anywhere near here. I can't imagine this thing making its way up here from India or Africa. Maybe it escaped from a zoo—um, okay, uh, it's back up again. Yeah, I'm definitely in the right place. Strange ruins, giant snakes that don't go down after a few bullets…

[four gunshots are heard]

Time for Plan B. I packed an amnestic light amplifier with me; here's hoping it works on boa constrictors.

[a sharp electric buzz is heard]

Okay, it's dazed. Relo… What?

[Inaudible]

Is that…singing? I hear singing. I wonder if the recorder's picking this up.

[Inaudible]

Whatever it is, it's affecting the constrictor. It's going down. It's…staying down. It… Oh my god.

[Inaudible]

Viviane, I presume.

<the recording ends abruptly>

"There, that's better. I'd prefer it if this conversation was private."

Phillipe attempted to activate his recorder several times, but to no avail. He pointed the gun at the woman, but she regarded it with cold disdain. It suddenly turned to water in his hand, splashing harmlessly on the weathered stone floor. He pursed his lips and waited to see what would happen. The woman walked over to the sleeping serpent, bent down, and caressed its scaly head.

"That's the second time I've had to do that," she said. "'The third time pays for all,' as it's said. Don't you agree?" Her eyes flickered like the sun, burning and stabbing, white orange yellow passion. She smiled, an ancient crone with only a few teeth, pointing with the silken hand of youth. "Do me a favor, would you? Reach into your pockets." Phillipe swallowed but did as she bade. He pulled out a handful of shiny white pebbles and spilled them on the ground. Their eyes met again, hers as dark and cold as the depths of the ocean.

"What," he snorted, "are you claiming to be the witch from Hansel and Gretel?"

"No," she answered, "I merely inspired her. But I have killed children before."

"I believe it," he said hoarsely. "Who, then? Queen Macha, swearing revenge on Ulstermen to this very day?"

"Different shawl, same body," she shrugged. He narrowed his eyes.

"And your other name, Viviane. That took a bit more effort to uncover. It's the name of the lake-nymph who forged Excalibur."

"The snake sloughs many skins in its lifetime," she replied. He merely rolled his eyes.

"Next you'll tell me you're Lilith, the first wife of Adam."

"Nothing so esteemed, Phillipe," she replied, her hideous teeth flashing. "But why are you so fixated on my name? You didn't come here just to unearth that little bauble."

"No," he said coldly: "I came to study you, and contain you." The woman laughed merrily, sharply, her eyes twinkling with love, her lips curled in venom. She towered over him like the mountains; she stared up from the dusty stone floor, mocking him; she stood behind him, next to him, on each of the crumbling pillars, astride the sleeping serpent. She became withered with age, rounded by youth, radiant with beauty, staggering with ugliness. She finally settled on an august middle-aged lady, her face locked in rigor mortis, dead and frigid.

"Spare me your posturing, boy, you can't even contain a statue. How do you propose to lock me away? I've outlasted kings and emperors; I was already ancient when the ancestors of your Founder were but a twinkle in their fathers' eyes. I had but to blink and the wonders of the world turned to dust."

"Fine speech," he said dryly. "Too bad I've heard it before. Whatever trickery you're still clinging to is obsolete." He then reached into his vest and began his incantation, clutching onto the antithaumatic item O5-5 had delivered to him. With his other hand he held out a portable Scranton Reality Anchor, ripping this creature away from her powers—and her delusions. She immediately roared, convulsing, writhing in pain, black ooze seeping out of her eyes and mouth.

"Stop it!" she screeched, falling to her knees, clutching her head in agony. "Stop it! Stop, stop, stop! Augh, stop, it tickles." Her eyes suddenly opened, malice and glee glistening. She winked mockingly, stood up, and snapped her fingers. Crouching next to Phillipe was a monstrous reptile, even larger than the serpent, glaring at him in joyful hatred. Immediately he scrambled away, unable to stop himself from screaming. He only knew this creature by reputation, but that was more than enough to horrify him. It watched as he fell over, crawling away on his hands and knees, saturated with cold sweat, hyperventilating and pathetic. The woman approached it and scratched its head.

"Oh, don't worry," she cooed. "This one won't harm you. It just wants to make friends. Right?"

The creature laughed cruelly. Phillipe almost soiled himself. The woman continued to smile and caress the creature affectionately.

"I've always had a rapport with reptiles," she mused: "snakes, serpents, dragons, the Immortigon… Heh, maybe that's why I liked Uther and Arthur so much. Are you going to take me seriously now?" Phillipe swallowed.

"How do I know it's not an illusion?" he whispered.

The woman smiled and beckoned him to approach. "See for yourself."

"On second thought," he muttered, "I'll take your word for it. I apologize."

"Good. On your feet now. As for you," she said, gently chucking the reptile's chin, "I thank you for your service, as does my patron. Stay out of trouble, and give my love to Abby, won't you?" The creature nodded, sparing Phillipe one last murderous gaze before it blinked out of existence. He slowly managed to regain his composure, wondering how many heart attacks he'd had.

"You shouldn't really fear her," the woman said, gesturing to the space once occupied by the reptile. "The people of my era saw her as the devourer of the accursed dead. As long as you hold yourself to more virtues than vices, she has no power over you."

"Can we please get to the point of all this?" Phillipe muttered, still trying to collect himself. He dabbed his face and neck with a cloth in spite of the cool air, and drank some of his water. To hell with it, he thought to himself, as he spied the tiny bottle of whiskey he had brought with him, and consumed it all. The woman flashed her teeth, looking very much like the reptile, and approached a crumbling, weathered stone chair that might have been used as a throne. She sat and gestured; there was a second seat for Phillipe. He hesitated.

"It's not the Siege Perilous, boy, I promise." He couldn't help but smirk a little and sat down. He attempted to use his recorder one more time before settling on his notebook.

"Do you mind if I take some notes?"

"Yes," she stated. She assuaged him by adding, "Fear not, I won't affect your memories like I did with Hubert or Bradley. I want you to remember this. You're the one I wished to speak with, after all. That's why Glaistig sent you."

"Who?" he blinked. A flash of embarrassment crossed her face.

"That's right, you wouldn't know her name," she murmured. She shrugged it off carelessly. "Never mind. I required someone wise in history and the Craft and so you were chosen; that's all there is to it. Now: you may conduct your interview. I will answer as I see fit."

"I'm deeply honored," Phillipe muttered ironically. He cleared his throat: "First off, I'm curious about what happened between you and van der Miir. Obviously you didn't kill him, but…"

"Ah," she smiled, casting a nostalgic stare at her guest. "It would be tiring to simply explain it to you, and not very informative. Focus, Phillipe, and I'll fill in the gaps for you." The color in her eyes fluttered, and the sky grew dark. A deep vibrating hum could be heard, so heavy that it pressed down on Phillipe like a weight. Soon the darkness enveloped him, and the humming became unbearable. It immediately ceased before he could be crushed, and when he looked up, he saw—

Hubert stood in the flickering glow of a fire, his shadow dancing against the wall. He had been prepared for death when he parted that veil, and thought himself long numbed to spectacles after his experiences: and yet he stood transfixed and dumb, wide-eyed, at the boiling cauldron and the woman looming over it. He could not describe her — not because he lacked the words, but because she kept changing. She was young, alluring, radiant and wild; she was elderly, bent, wrinkled and horrible. She had the gentlest countenance, like a mother's, or else the cruelest eyes, like a wolf's. She wore simple clothes, muted and solemn, but they flashed with bright colors and exotic hues. She hardly ever moved; she was animated. She was tall enough to pierce the clouds, yet so small that she could sit on Hubert's nose. She was corpulent, skeletal; swarthy, pale; naked, concealed; boisterous, silent. Her eyes burned like the sun and crashed like the ocean.

Her house was lined with strange decoration: torches, keys of all shapes and sizes, statues of snakes and dogs. There were vases with two dragons emblazoned on them, and lion's faces carved into her furniture. The image of a great brass ram stared back from the cauldron—and most horrible of all, her shelves were filled with human skulls. The woman herself was focused on the cauldron, staring impassively as it boiled beneath her. She was muttering an incantation, arms held over the mixture as if to warm them. Her eyes flickered over to the door for an instant, then returned, completely disregarding her guest. Suddenly she called out:

"Double, double, toil and trouble! Fire burn and cauldron bubble!"

Hubert sneered; he recognized the quote. He had never liked Shakespeare; was this woman mocking him somehow?

"Ask and it will be given to you," she announced, in fire and water, "seek and you will find; knock and the door…" She paused, her lips curling. She now focused completely on Hubert, though she did not move. "Is that not from your scriptures3, Hubert?" He winced as she spoke his name.

"How did…" He swallowed as the revelation came to him. Clearly, this was a witch, the object of his search. It was highly likely this woman knew a great deal more than his name. Seek and you will find, indeed. He nearly regretted his search, but knew he could no longer turn back, so he strove forward. He spoke again, thickly: "Are you the one who summoned me here?"

"I have many purposes and many goals, Hubert. But yes."

"What is your name?"

"I've had many of those as well," she muttered coldly. Her hands thrust against the cauldron, igniting a fire and a flash of light. Then all was still and dark. The ritual evidently ended, she fully turned to face him, gesturing with an elegant hand, every finger adorned with a ring. She smiled. "Are you a man, a cockerel, or a dog?"

Hubert swallowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are not deaf or stupid, boy. Answer my question." It was a command, not a request. He grimaced.

"A man."

"No, you are a fool. Behold yourself." Her head jerked at a mirror, which Hubert approached cautiously. When he looked into it, he saw the image of a dog. He barked twice. "Be silent!" the woman snapped. He obeyed. She bent over and caressed his fur soothingly. "Isn't this a more appropriate form? Oh, don't worry, you still have your mind, and your ears—and you're in good company. See?" She nodded at her statues, then gave the dog a firm pat. "My aunt is fond of changing men into pigs, so consider this a family fetish. Ah, what have we here?" Noticing his account, she picked it up and casually flipped through it, then set it on a table between two skulls. She caressed them fondly and even kissed them before tending to her guest. She smiled craftily and held out three large playing-cards.

"Since you were good enough to come all this way, let's play a game. Two of these cards contain a truth while one contains a lie. If you can distinguish the lie, you may ask me any question you wish, and I will be compelled to answer truthfully. If you cannot, then you must perform a service for me." Disregarding Hubert's thoughts on the matter, the woman laid the cards on the floor. Despite being transformed into a dog, Hubert could read their contents perfectly:

1: Your name is Hubert van der Miir.

2: You are Dutch.

3: You are married.

The dog immediately pointed its nose to the third card. The woman smiled.

"I made it easy this time, because I know what you will ask of me. But speak all the same; you have that ability."

Hubert's voice sounded rough, grating, and inhuman, but that was to be expected. "What is your name?"

"Louhi. Just one of many, so do not believe you have uncovered anything. Shall we have another round? Well, I have you in my power, little mutt, so there is not much choice. I must excuse myself, as the next round requires a more dramatic presentation." The woman strode away from Hubert's vision, hiding herself well, despite the small size of her cottage. She appeared suddenly, behind Hubert, startling him. The abruptness of her appearance was not to be blamed on his novice canine ability, as Sirius himself would not have heard, seen, or smelled so stealthy an entrance. The woman held a broadsword, sheathed in a magnificent scabbard. She slowly waved it three times before setting it down. The three cards that had been set before him were now changed to reflect this new stage of the game:

1: This sword can cut hills.

2: The blade is more important than the sheath.

3: It was given freely, and returned freely.

Hubert had no idea how to go about this one. He had heard praises of an animal's instincts, particularly those of dogs, but presently his were mute. He felt he had a poor chance regardless, and chose the first card.

"Incorrect," the woman said. She tapped the middle card. "This one is the false. Now I will ask for your service." She took Hubert's accounts and moved to a bookshelf, taking a considerable amount of time deciding where precisely to place the ledger. The woman whispered something and slid it into the desired position, then pushed it further in, until it had vanished completely. She then turned to Hubert and bowed slightly. "Thus your service comes to an end. I thank you. I must also apologize, as I set you up for failure that time, so to make up for it, I shall permit you to ask me a second question. Speak."

Hubert felt his heart racing. "Why did you beckon me here?"

"So I could lay shiny pebbles along the forest for the children to follow home." She laughed dryly and walked over to her cauldron. She tapped it three times with her hand. "The final round of the game is upon us. You know the rules by now. Tell me what is special about this cauldron. Look to the cards, and consider your answer carefully." Hubert did so.

1: It is the symbol of true love.

2: It is the giver of life.

3: It is the slayer of kings.

Hubert was even more clueless than he had been for the previous question. How could a cauldron give life but slay kings? Were life and love not the same? The witch had been brewing something in it when he arrived, but for what purpose? To give life, or to take it? If it was a symbol of true love, then for whom was it intended? He knew only one of the cards was false. He recalled stories of heroes slaying evil kings for their lovers, or to save their realm; he also recalled how Christ showed his love by being "slain", thus giving life…but no, there was nothing Christian about this woman, or this place—or even much of him, if he were being honest. This was all pagan. The woman seemed impatient, so he must make a decision. He closed his eyes and let his nose go where it pleased.

The woman gave no answer.

"Look to the mirror." Hubert sighed doggedly. Was this another "service" he must perform? It did not seem to matter: he was compelled to look. Carefully he peered into the glass as the woman towered over him.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the truest of them all?"

Hubert felt honest human fingers touch a face devoid of fur. His nose was angular again, his ears rounded not flat, his legs numbering two, his tail gone, his humanity restored. He stared at the image as if he had never seen a man before. He didn't know if he should speak or be silent. Does one thank a witch for restoring one's humanity?

"I remain in your power," he said after a long pause. He slumped, dejected. "Woe is me, that clarity and sanity should return now!"

"Ask your question, Hubert." She nodded, assenting. It didn't seem to matter whether he had chosen correctly or not. Perhaps the whole charade was a game itself, games within games—or a test, or an experiment, or an answer, or a question. It was certainly not madness, to his misfortune. He drew a deep breath, contemplating what he should inquire about. There were hundreds, thousands of questions he had. One seemed to emerge as the most prominent, however:

"Could you tell me about yourself?"

"Ah." The woman's fire seemed to dim as she sat down, crossing her legs. "No."

Hubert gave a start and lurched. "But you are bound to your word!"

"My word is fulfilled," she answered in a voice like iron. "You asked me a question and I answered it truthfully. I cannot tell you about myself."

"Cannot or will not?" he pressed.

The woman scowled before softening. "That is not a story meant for your ears. You came here for a purpose and fulfilled it. You may now leave. Though I do not owe you anything, I will apologize for not revealing more." She paused as if to reconsider, then stood and drew a goblet from a nearby shelf. She dipped it into her brew and presented it to Hubert. "You will drink this. As you do, know this: that once I was a princess, descended from gods and titans. Once I was ensnared by love, and into it I fell, betraying my country and even killing my brother for its sake. And so the princess became a queen, but she did not live happily ever after. The man whom she had devoted herself to abandoned her for another, and so her love turned to hate, and she swore vengeance. Do you know what happens to a princess whose heart is broken by her prince?"

"No," Hubert replied, as he finished the goblet. He soon closed his eyes and fell over. The woman stood over him vigilantly.

"They become witches."

"There," Phillipe heard the woman speak, breaking the spell. "That was our entire exchange. Perhaps more dramatic and less satisfying than you had hoped, though." Phillipe gasped for air, shaking his head, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Excalibur, dogs, serpents, fire and water, cauldrons, princesses betrayed by their lovers… It was like being force-fed memories, shoving one after the other into a tiny, cramped space until it burst. Phillipe mastered the sensation slowly, feeling weak, glad he was sitting down. It was a lot to take in.

"It's more than I expected to get, to be honest," he admitted with some effort. "But like my predecessor, I'm curious about you, unless I'm not the one who…" She silently nodded and crossed her legs.

"You saw me summon the Immortigon. It enjoys my company because I, too, am hatred. It hates out of necessity, though, whereas I hate, paradoxically, out of love."

"Because you had your heart broken," he stated.

"Because I was betrayed," she corrected venomously. "Observe." She gestured and the world became dark again: visions flickered to life before Phillipe. He saw the woman perpetrating atrocities in the name of love: killing members of her own family, turning her back on her country, using her Craft to deceive people, leaving bodies in her wake, some of them torn to pieces—all in the name of love. "Can you imagine how one would react when all of that is discarded like so much refuse?" she muttered bitterly as the sky brightened. "To be told that none of it mattered? To be abandoned, and forced into even greater wickedness out of sheer cold necessity?"

"I honestly can't," he admitted. "So am I to assume that you traveled the world searching for your former lover so you could exact revenge?"

"No, I had already fulfilled my revenge," she muttered hurtfully. She drooped, appearing crestfallen, even regretful. "But I'm not…as straightforward as that."

"What do you mean?" She sighed, and for the first time, Phillipe saw in her a woman defeated, vulnerable, brimming with power yet undeniably powerless, like Odin who strove insatiably for wisdom, only to be doomed to understand the futility of his actions.

"When my vengeance was sated, I tried to start over—make a new life for myself, in a new land, with a new lover. That…didn't work out."

"What happened? If you don't mind my asking," Phillipe remedied. The woman sighed, hunching over, becoming a desiccated hag.

"Let's just say that my hatred got the best of me, and I went into exile. For ages I roamed aimlessly across the earth — and during my travels, something happened to me. Words are inadequate; observe." The sky grew brighter, and he saw the woman stumbling aimlessly, over plains and hills, camping in deserts and ice flows, traversing oceans and mountains. With each step she seemed to lose a part of herself, but gained something greater: great but terrible, unbearable, unimaginable. Time gave up on her and she became a living anachronism. He watched as she outlived her oppressors, her kingdom, her country, surpassing all bounds and transcending to a higher existence, becoming something greater than herself, but still remaining herself. There was not one life but many lives; not one world but many worlds; not one thought but all thoughts. At the center of it all was the woman, the wife, the witch, what she had been and what she was becoming. It quickly became incomprehensible — not because of inadequacy, but excess; there was far too much to glean, like an infinite library, and he was forced to read every book simultaneously. Her voices all called out to him in unison, a melange of noise: I am evil, I am good. I am the witch who lures children into her gingerbread house, who plots to steal silver slippers from Kansas farm girls, who foretells of the rise and fall of Kings and Thanes. I am the lady in the lake, the last daughter of Charn, the Sampo's bane, she who curses Ulstermen and sends Amfortas falling from grace. I am the consort Daji, Yan Poxi, Baba Yaga, La Befana, Grimhilde, Kikimore, Rangda. I am Sarah Good, Martha Corey, Rebecca Nurse, Rachel Clinton, and Elizabeth Proctor. I am hatred, king-slayer, child-killer, butcher of brothers, wife and woman and witch. Betrayal. Suffering. Bitterness. Disgust.

"But mostly," she gasped, her face pale and gaunt, her eyes dim and weary, her hair thin and grey, "mostly, I am weary. I hated and hated until I became as a candle without its wax, utterly worn down to nothing. And still I live, and permeate the world and the minds of men. I go on, and on, because I cannot die. I have become a Legend, an Idea, a thread in the tapestry of myth. Now do you see why you cannot contain me? Can you hold fast to a thought? Can you lock up an archetype? I had a cousin who once kept hope itself shut in a jar. Perhaps, in that sense, I am already contained, locked in the minds of humanity, doomed to be the witch in their stories. Forever cursed to either hate…or be hated."

She paused, long enough to gaze at her guest, to show him that she was weeping. Young or old, weary or strong, great or feeble, she wept. Phillipe took a deep breath.

"Well, for what it's worth, you do have my sympathies," he sighed. "I've seen my fair share of horrors, but to live with that… Anyway, you still haven't told me why I'm here. That rigamarole with van der Miir and Derfield wasn't just you showing off. Perhaps you should lay some cards down."

The woman laughed feebly at his double-meaning. Rheumatically, she rose and walked over to Phillipe, holding out three cards, each decorated with dragons, keys, rams, and torches.

"One of these has my true name on it," she said solemnly. "The other two are false. Choose the correct card and I'll tell you what you want to know." He skimmed over them, choosing one without even hesitating. The woman smiled with relief. "The Senior Researcher for Thaumaturgy and Occult practices, former teacher of history and mythology, has chosen correctly. To be blunt, Phillipe, I wish to be left alone."

"That's why I'm here?" he snapped incredulously. "You wait over three-hundred years, transform an MTF into animals, and make me walk all the way out here just to be left alone? A bit counterintuitive, don't you think?" Her eyes narrowed as strength and authority returned to her voice. She became ageless, unfathomable, fiery, seductive.

"I went through all that rigamarole, as you put it, so I'd have a modicum of control over our inevitable encounter. Of course I knew your Foundation would stumble across me eventually — or else one of the other groups of interest you contend with every so often — but at a time and a place outside of my choosing, in a situation where I would have very little agency, where I might even have…difficulties."

"What," he snorted, smiling haughtily, "a powerful woman like you? I thought you had ascended beyond such concerns."

"Don't be petulant," she spat, "even the gods can be beset by forces beyond their control. A conflict would be pointless, and unnecessarily destructive. Besides, if it escalated, my wrath would be the least of your concerns. If you think Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you haven't seen what my grandfather is capable of—nor would I want you to."

Not knowing what to say, Phillipe remained as still and silent as the stones around him.

"So I am to do nothing?"

"You are to report me to your Foundation," she corrected. "To know me is to know my desires; to not know me is to not know my desires. Do you understand? I am like a beehive hiding round the corner, only dangerous if encountered. To know me is to avoid me—unless I demand otherwise."

"Demand?" he scoffed, feeling put off. Since when did the Foundation accede to the demands of anomalies?

"Don't be daft, boy," she spat, as if sensing his thoughts, "I'm not unreasonable. For the moment I wish for my privacy, to ruminate on who I am, and who, or what, I wish to be, and what I wish to do with myself. But at times I may want for company, or news, or…an exchange. I may even wish to give aid. If the word 'demand' chafes you, then think of it as an accord, an understanding. A screen of smoke to settle the hive and reap the rewards."

"It still feels like I've wasted my time," Phillipe grunted. "I especially don't like the idea of leaving an anomaly free."

"Anomaly?" she grumbled, turning into a veil of mist. "Is that the limit of your understanding?" The mist coalesced into a shape, becoming Viviane, a crone, a dragon, his mother. Finally it turned into a sphinx, with the face of the person he loved most staring back at him. He cringed, not wishing to see the dead come back to life. "A final game, Phillipe," it proclaimed. "Answer my questions and have your questions answered. Fail and become a failure. What happens when the unnatural becomes natural? How did the Overseers know where to send you? Am I a wife, a witch…or a way of thinking?"

And that was when he woke up.

The following is an audio-only conversation between O5-4 and Senior Researcher Offet, held forty hours after the incident in question, and recorded at the behest of O5-4.

Offet: This is an unexpected honor, ma'am. I take it this is about the anomaly.

O5-4: Correct. Are you all recovered from your ordeal?

Offet: Physically, yes. Mentally, it will take some time.

O5-4: I expected no less. I've taken the liberty of drawing up a document for you. I believe Director Bouquet will approve of it, but feel free to edit it if necessary.

Offet: Uh, no, ma'am, I don't think that will be, ah, required. But may I ask, ma'am, why you're personally investing yourself in this?

O5-4: I don't think that's the question you meant to ask, Offet.

Offet: (a pause) You knew about her, didn't you?

O5-4: I was familiar with the individual. Not to the extent that I once believed, but yes. This operation was…enlightening, to say the least.

Offet: Ma'am?

O5-4: I'm just musing on a new perspective. That's the thing about anomalies—or archetypes: just when you think you know them inside and out, they throw you a curve. Anyway, after purveying van der Miir's account, and the incident in Ulster, Oh Five-Five and I were able to piece everything together. To borrow from her own parlance, the witch left enough pebbles behind for us to discover her. I am surprised, though, that you were curious about Georgia. I'd thought you had a knack for history.

Offet: I…took longer to reach the proper conclusion, ma'am. It was a matter of…well, if you'll forgive me for saying so, a matter of not seeing the forest for the trees.

O5-4: We're all permitted a few apropos cliches in our lives, Offet. I'm glad to hear you didn't need your hand held.

Offet: (laughs softly) My pride says that I was the right choice, but my humility admits that at times, I really did feel like a boy. (a pause) Object Class Binah4, ma'am?

O5-4: Do you disagree?

Offet: (a pause) No, I suppose not. It's the only way we could classify her. Uh, excuse me: it. But do we really just leave it alone, and bend to its whims whenever it calls us? It feels like a slap in the face.

O5-4: Think of it this way, Offet: you attend to the basic needs of other anomalies, correct? We don't spoil or coddle them, certainly, but we don't neglect them, either—if only out of safety. Who's to say what this one might attempt if we don't, at times, humor her?

Offet: She didn't strike me—excuse me, it didn't strike me as the type who'd enjoy being humored, ma'am. But I do see your point. (sighs) Forgive my haranguing, it still feels like she thinks we're her servants, waiting around for her pleasure.

O5-4: (chuckles softly) Buried under that mountain of exhaustion and hate and heartbreak, she's still a Queen at heart. Ordering others around is in her blood. If one of the last remaining monarchs of our world were to invite me over for tea, I'd attend happily. Of course, I wouldn't pass up the chance of conversing with a living, breathing relic of mythology, either. Could you?

Offet: (a pause) No ma'am, I couldn't. All the same, I may make some revisions to this document after all.

O5-4: By all means. I will leave the rest to you, Offet. Give my best to Bouquet.

Offet: Thank you, ma'am, I will.

Item #: SCP-7632

Object Class: Esoteric/Binah

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-7632 is currently contained in noospherical space, although it has the ability to materialize in perceptual reality (SCP-7632-A). It has been known to appear primarily in Europe, northern Africa, and western Asia, although its influence is global. At varying intervals, SCP-7632 will request the presence of a Foundation member, either through telepathy or other anomalous means. In order to maintain containment, this member, regardless of clearance or importance, must be given a temporary leave of absence and delivered to the location specified by SCP-7632. A Site Director or other Senior member of staff must be notified of this departure, and make arrangements to transport said individual to the location requested. After an unspecified period of time, the requested Foundation member will reappear at or near their original location, whereupon they must be recovered and debriefed. Amnesticization is discouraged unless approved by those with Level 4 clearance or higher.

During interactions, the requested Foundation member is to treat SCP-7632-A with courtesy and respect. Recording devices, weapons, third parties, Scranton Reality Devices, and antithaumatic devices are not permitted, unless specified otherwise. Gifts to the entity must first meet with Director or Senior Staff approval. SCP-7632-A is generally benign and will avoid hostility unless extensively provoked. Interaction with SCP-7632-A is entirely dependent on the entity itself; any attempts to locate it outside of these times is prohibited.

Evelyn de Morgan's depiction of SCP-7632-A.

Description: SCP-7632 is a pataphysical sentient archetype of the human consciousness, primarily representing negative feminine thaumaturgical energy. During its manifestations, it has been known to appear as a human female of varying ages, ethnicities, and forms (SCP-7632-A), with a variety of names and titles associated with it (See attachment 7632-1, "Nomenclative Associations"). SCP-7632-A is capable of high degrees of thaumaturgical behavior, including ontokinetics, polymorphosis, spatially displacing objects and entities, issuing cognitohazards, and amnesticising others; its long exposure to the noosphere has also given it considerable knowledge and intelligence. It is fluent in all known mundane languages and several anomalous ones, including Fey, Sarkic, Ortothan, and various Daevite languages, and is capable of telepathic communication.

It first materialized in Greece and Colchis (present-day Georgia) circa 1300 BCE, and had spread its influence to Celtic regions by 275 BCE. Reports of its manifestations were also referenced in India during the 6th century CE, and China during the late Shang Dynasty (1600–1046 BCE) and early Northern Song Dynasty (960-1279 CE), suggesting that it affected merchants traveling the Silk Road. It found a foothold in colonial America during the late 17th century, though research hypothesizes it may have arrived centuries, if not millennia sooner. By the mid-19th century, its influence could be documented worldwide; as such, a small amount of levity regarding the Veil of Secrecy is permitted.

[Edit]: Although the Elan-Vital Energy readings of SCP-7632-A have not been fully studied or measured, they are estimated to exceed a Casper Intensity of ten-thousand.

Addendum-A: Senior Researcher Offet (Site-278) is to be inquired for further details.

Addendum-B (revision): The first individual SCP-7632 requested was O5-█, who was escorted to an undisclosed location by MTF Alpha-1 (Red Right Hand). Alpha-1 formed a 100-meter perimeter around the area and remained on guard until contact with O5-█ was reestablished. O5-█ was returned safely and debriefed by O5-4.

WARNING: ACCESS DENIED. LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE ONLY

- Close

Overseer-Five wasn't surprised when the Lady contacted her shortly after O5-4's conversation with Offet, nor was she intrigued by the location chosen. It made perfect sense for them to meet in the Wanderer's Library: after all, witches are entirely dependent on stories, and this witch was one of the oldest and most widely-circulated. She was, however, curious how the Lady managed to convince the Librarians to allow a "Jailer" to visit. At least, in a wry twist of fate, there was tea at the table.

"Hello, Morgana," Five said, nodding respectfully. The Lady leveled a gaze as deep and enigmatic as the sea at her.

"Hello, Glaistig. I had wanted to speak with Tilda as well, but I didn't think she would come. Poor choice of location and all. No matter, you're just as good. I feel like you'd understand me from…a more appreciable perspective."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't use that name," Five said, grimacing. Macha smirked.

"Oh? Well, that is a touchy subject in our circles, isn't it? But as you wish; I'll just call you Five. Please, be seated, and help yourself. It's roast dandelion tea." Five thanked her and sat. The tea was hot, earthy, and subtle.

"I didn't think I'd be welcomed here," Five remarked. Baba Yaga showed rows of rotten, crooked teeth.

"Why? Do you have overdue books?" Five's eyes flickered.

"Let's just say that the Foundation's relationship with the Library is…strained."

"Oh," the Queen remarked idly, as if the politics of extradimensional spaces meant nothing to her. "Don't worry, I've got some clout here—or did you forget who you were talking to?"

"Point taken," Five admitted, raising her cup. As if to prove this, she spotted a Docent hovering by, without so much as glancing their way.

"Besides," Rangda added quietly, "I live here. It's the only home I've ever known."

"Not Colchis?"

"You know what I mean," Jadis muttered. "Here—stories. That's where I exist. The Evil Queen. The Wicked Witch. The deceptive wife. The child-eater. I'm a caricature."

"A fate few would envy," Five muttered behind her cup. Knowing better than to let the Lady stew in her bitterness, Five cut to the quick. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Perhaps some advice is in order," Nimue murmured. She glanced at Five, noticing her intrigued expression. "Don't give me that look. I'm not too proud to hear from another perspective." Five smiled faintly and silently assented. The Queen simmered for a moment before asking, "Do you think it's possible for me to have a happy ending?"

"In my line of work, very few things are impossible," Five remarked. She finished her tea, then gestured around. "Look around you. This library contains every story ever written, and many that are not written." She poured herself one more cup before adding, with a smile, "Surely a few would work in your favor."

"Ah yes, children's stories where the heroine is a brave little girl in a world full of magic, or one of those ridiculous 'magical academy' fantasies bloated with maudlin whimsy. Eiko Watanabe5 almost ruined my reputation as much as Jakob and Wilhelm!"

Five nodded sympathetically. "Couldn't you just make one yourself?"

"I've tried that before," Elphaba murmured, sinking her head into her hands. "I've tried it more times than I can count. Over and over. It never lasts. In my endings are terrible new beginnings, and yet…" In her despondency she forced out a self-effacing laugh. "Van der Miir once thought he had a monopoly on madness, but how insane must I be to keep hoping, past desperation, to the point where it's masochism?"

"Ah, so that's why you wanted to speak with my associate," Five deduced. "The two of you have quite a number of traits in common."

"Am I to take that as a compliment?" Grimhilde said.

"You may if you like." Jezebel shrugged. She emptied her cup, took Five's empty one, and smashed them together in her hands. An origami pigeon fluttered out of her opening palms, making its way to one of the shelves, where it transformed into a book.

"Very elegant," Five complimented, and a humble smile crossed the Lady's face. "So how do you propose to achieve your goal? Surely not by drawing our people into your quarters, one by one, in the hopes that they'd provide an answer."

La Befana looked away and said nothing.

"And what would you do if and when your goal is reached?" Five prodded. "Disappear? You're forever tied to the human subconscious, whether you like it or not. No ending, however happy, can erase that. A part of you will always be a witch; your story will continue as long as there are storytellers. Perhaps you should take your own advice, and move on from anger to acceptance."

There was silence between the two for a long time. A subtle shift overtook the Queen's composure. She looked up, directly into Five's eyes.

"I knew I was right to seek you out," she said quietly, her eyes flashing with disquieting inspiration. Morgan le Faye pushed her chair back and stood; Five stood with her. "You're right, you know," she continued: "there's no permanent solution to my dilemma. But just as I illuminated you and…your associate," she added with a curling mouth, "so too have you brought new perspectives to my doorstep. I thank you."

"Should I be alarmed?" Five said, nervously chuckling. The creature before her smiled gleefully, turning into a fox-demon. There was a wild sense of peace, though, in Consort Daji's eyes: mischief, not malice.

"I've been going about this all wrong. Aristotle had the right idea the whole time: a means between the extremes. Why shun my fate when I can embrace it, even enjoy it? And who knows — perhaps there are yet some tales in this treasury that sing of my praises, and call me hero, and lift me upon grateful shoulders, even as my heart breaks and my world burns. People do so love to see their characters survive the fire. I can keep my pride in spite of it all. But first, my dear friend, some indulgence is in order. I've just recalled an artifact of mine that may assuage me in times of despair."

"And what might that be?" Five asked. The Lady grinned; one could almost imagine her cackling underneath a full moon.

"Let's not spoil the ending just yet. You are dismissed, Chelsea, and I? I am Zoroaster, emerging from his cave to greet the morn renewed! Give my best to Tilda — and to Phillipe, if you see him again. Ah," she sighed to herself, "when shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's lost and won: that will be ere the set of sun."6

Overseer-Five jolted awake, finding herself outside the Wanderer's Library, in the clearing where the witch had instructed her to wait. She took a moment to compose herself before contacting Alpha-1.

Addendum-C (revision): Recently a manifestation of SCP-7632 was sighted in the Wanderer's Library, though this could not be verified.

Addendum-D (revision): On ████ April 2023, SCP-826 was reported missing. Twelve hours later, SCP-826 was found on top of its safe, with a note attached, written in Colchidian and ancient Greek. Translated, it reads, "Thank you for holding onto it. Briefly took it back for personal use. No need for alarm if you see it missing again. Ask █████ and ███████ for further details." It was signed in liquid gold, with the astrological sign of Aries.

Footnotes

1. Anthonie Heinsius, Grand Pensionary of Holland from 1689-1720

2. The Clever Maid

3. Matthew 7:7

4. Item can affect the collective human consciousness, and may thereby affect reality.

5. The author of "Kiki's Delivery Service", a children's novel about a young female witch.

6. Macbeth, Act 1 Scene 1.