It was nearing the end of the witching hour, and most sensible folk 
were tucked away in bed, resting to face the new day. For the fourth 
(or was it the fifth? Sixth? It was hard to keep track) time that night, 
a cautious knock came on the bedroom door of one such couple, 
shattering the silence that had settled over the house. For a fourth 
time that night, a sleep-addled voice called out: “What do you need 
NOW?” and a small and wavering voice replied “Mommy!” 


“Your turn.” came a voice from underneath a mound of pillows and 
blankets. 


“A’ight. ‘m goin’, hun.” 


The covers were tossed to the side, and a man in his late thirties 
disentangled himself and groped sightlessly for clothing. His fingers 
met a light switch, and the darkness was banished. The form under 
the blankets swore viciously and rolled over to block the light from 
unadjusted eyes. 


Click. Darkness again. “Hurry!” urged the small voice. 


“Hang on!” The man snapped, most of his good humor lost to the 
first few repetitions of the ritual. He felt around until his hands met 
the cool metal of the door knob. 


“What d-“ 


A small girl launched into his stomach hard enough to send him 
stumbling back into the room. 
“Sleepin’ in here with you guys tonight, kay?” 


“No, not ok, kiddo. You have a perfectly nice big girl bed in your 
room. Mommy and Daddy’s room is much too small for you and us. 
What’s the matter?” 


“It's the monsters, Daddy!” She whispered, scanning the hallway as 
if one might be creeping up on them from the yawning maw of the 
stairwell. 


“Anna, there is no such thing. We’ve been over this, honey.” 


“Yu-huh! | can hear ‘em snufflin’ around in there, growling and stuff. 
They’re probably hungry!” 


Her father rolled his eyes. “I'll walk back with you.” 
“No! Wanna sleep here!” 


Her father scooped her up and carried her back down the hallway, 
ignoring her protests and kicking. 


“Lookit, nothing under the bed, inside the closet, outside the 
windows, or anywhere else. No monsters to be seen anywhere. 


“They can hide!” 


“Sweetheart, there is nowhere to hide in here. | checked every little 
nook and cranny. You’re gonna have to believe me.” He scooped 
her bear off of the floor. “You two curl up under the covers and get 
some rest for me, ok? You're perfectly safe. Promise.” He shut the 
door gently and shambled back to his own room, sleep already 
overtaking him. 


“Is she ok?” his wife asked. “Maybe we should have let her sleep in 
here. Just this once.” 


“That's how bad habits get formed, you know. She needs to learn to 
beat these silly fears by herself.” 


“You're right, | suppose. But | do worry about her.” His wife’s words 
fell on deaf ears. He was already snoring softly, a slab of dead 
weight leaning up against her. 


Anna cuddled deeper under her blanket. Her dad had said she was 
safe, but... Something still felt wrong. The gibbous moon outside 
cast odd shadows about her room, turning a doll into a grotesque 
alien being, a chair into a looming mouthful of teeth, ready to 


swallow up a little kid such as herself. She didn’t like it a bit. 


And the sounds. She could still hear the deep, throaty gurgles, the 
snuffles, the growls. If anything, they had grown louder. She ducked 
her head under her covers and curled into a ball, hugging her knees. 
“Just a few hours until morning.” She whispered under her breath 
until it became like a silent mantra, over and over. “Only a few more 
hours. Only a few more.” 


The noises seemed to fill her world now. They were right at her 
ears, surrounding her. She sucked a panicked, sobbing breath in. 
She was beginning to get uncomfortably hot under the blankets. Her 
night gown was soaked with a mist of sweat and her bangs clung to 
her face. She could have sworn that by the second the heat was 
building,much more heat than her small body should have been able 
to generate. Her breath was coming faster, and she felt smothered 
by the heat. She kicked the blankets off, even though the noises still 
echoed all around her. Or, tried to. She hadn’t remembered her 
father tucking her in quite so tight. In fact, the more she thrashed to 
get an arm or a leg free, the tighter it seemed to get. Yes, definitely. 
The blankets were tight against her chest and stomach now, and 
getting tighter still. She screamed for her parents as loud as her 
constricted lung capacity would allow. 


“That didn’t sound like her normal scream.” Anna’s mother said, 
bolting up in bed. “Go check on her!” 

She didn’t have to say it twice. The two of them hurried down the 
dark hallway to Anna’s room. 


“Anna? Hun?” 


The room appeared to be empty. Anna’s blanket lay perfectly neat, 
spread out on the floor. There was no sign of the little girl. The bed 
lay empty, the pillow and covers still soaked with sweat. 


Anna!” Her mother half shrieked half sobbed, as her father checked 
any spaces she could have hidden in. He reached down to pick up 
the blanket, and then recoiled. No, it couldn’t have been. It was just 
exhaustion playing tricks on his mind, right? But no. he saw it again. 
The blanket moved. 


He felt the material writhe under his fingers, and he let out a hoarse 
cry. 


“What is it?” Her mother leapt around to face him. “What did you 
find?” 


The blanket was most definitely moving on its own. He felt it tighten 
in a nearly bone-shattering grip around his wrist. He could see it 
changing into something.... Else. Something almost human. His 
daughter's words echoed in his mind. “They can hide, daddy!” 


The blanket-thing was looming over him now, rapidly changing. He 
peddled his feet backwards, but still the grip did not loosen. He felt 
something in his wrist pop. And at that moment, his eyes fell on his 
daughter’s blanket, the real one, neatly folded at the foot of her bed, 
where it had been placed the previous morning. 


And on the bed were a few pink scraps, splattered with something 
red. Scraps of a pink night gown. 


Only |n Drea{{m}}s-- 


Guys, this is another out of character post. Much like something 
to share, it's just a way for me to get out something that's bugging 
me, and not really a Tale per se. If you're looking for a story, or for 
some kind of interesting twist, this is not the page for you. 


For a long time, I've had several reoccurring dreams. Most are of no 
consequence, or at least deserve a separate telling. One, however, 
recently took on a significance that | admit troubles me a bit. You 
see, | regularly talk on the phone with my girlfriend before bed, and 
since we're both contributors here and share a certain macabre 
mindset, | suppose it's unsurprising that our conversation often turns 
for the spooky. In this case, we were discussing night terrors. 


She told me that only twice in her life had she experienced the 
feeling of paralysis that lies somewhere between dreams and 
awakening. One was a story for her to tell another day, but the 
other? It was my dream. 


| was speechless for a moment, shocked, then began to speak in 
unison with her, and together we recited the events of the dream, 
then sat for a long time in silence. Our dreams were identical until 
the final moments. She tells me | should post about it here, so. Here. 
If any of you others have had this dream, speak up. | won't say it's 
significant, because | have no idea, but | will say it's sobering. 


It begins with fog. 


The night is dark and misted with a foggy soft rain, the kind that 
seeps rather than falls and soaks everything it touches to the bone. 
The streets around me are dark, lit only by the guttering streetlamp 
ahead which casts its meager light on the sullen cobbles in what 
seems almost like revulsion. For a short moment, there is nothing 
there but the silent street and the gloomy light. Then, almost as if 
dropped by stage magic from some unseen door, he is there. A 
man, or something like one, in a tall top hat and long cloaklike coat, 


standing just at the edge of the light as though he's been there all 
along, looking down at the ground beside his feet on the soaking 
street. 


Often, on good nights, this is the part where | wake up. 


| find myself inching closer, though | try like a man in fear of his life 
to turn and run. | feel my feet move against my command, pulling 
me slowly toward that circle of light that should be reassuring. Some 
nights, in the dream, | can hear him chuckle softly to himself, only 
once. 


He sees me. I'm sure of that. Despite the depth of the nighttime 
dark, and his lowered gaze, hidden by the wide brim of his tall hat, 
he is totally aware of my presence, and of my inability to turn away 
or slow my advance. Any moment now, as soon as | cross some 
unknown threshold, he will look up. 


| do not want him to look up. 


Don't get me wrong, it's not just the dream me that's frightened. 
Maybe it's best to say that there /s no dream me. I'm aware, every 
time, that I'm dreaming; | Know that I'm in my bed in my house, 
surrounded by walls and locks and fences in the depths of suburbia. 
| know he's not real. Somehow the knowing makes it worse. 


There is no sound in this part of the dream but the oddly muted 
hollow clatter of drizzle on cobblestone, but there is an impression of 
noise, of speech, of something, as | drift closer and closer and my 
fear and loathing and revulsion mounts to a crescendo as he silently 
waits for me, and with a gut churning wrench in the pit of my 
stomach | see as if in slow motion the brim of his hat tilting as he 
begins to raise his face toward me. 


| always wake up screaming. 


| told you that my girlfriend's dream is different from mine in the end. 
The difference is just as bad, to me, as the whole extended 
beginning. Like me, she finds herself drawn down the rainswept 
cobbled street, toward the figure in the tall top hat and cloak who 
waits, looking down at the edge of the streetlamp's meager glow. 


Dispatched Class-D personnel, known hence-forth as DI1, DI2, and 
DI3, were directed to pay particular attention to anything that could 
be considered an origin point for SCP-610. 


The trek from our Perimeter camp to Site C was uneventful; there is 
no evidence of any native animal life in the area. As Site C is 
approached there is a noticeable rise in the temperature within the 
last 30 meters of the trip that necessitates removal of the heavy 
cold-based coverings that were provided. The temperature rises 
again sharply at the entrance to Site C proper which requires a 
further shedding of garments for fear of heat stroke. Temperatures 
within Site C are described as being heavily humid and around 32°C 
(89°F). 


One of the first immediately noticed traits about Site C is an array of 
immobile ‘pylons’ which encircle what is believed to be the entirety of 
the site. Separated by an apparent distance of 5 to 6 meters, each 
pylon appears to be two to four infected persons fused together in 
one spot. On some of these pylons features such as faces or 
anuses are still visible in addition to several other holes which do not 
naturally occur, all appearing to act as heat vents. Where the heat is 
generated is unknown. Current belief is that this is an advanced 
stage of SCP-610 terraforming its environment to facilitate spread of 
itself. 


DI2, who was furthest along in progression of SCP-610 of the three 
by a number of hours, begins to seizure after only a few minutes in 
Site C during examination of the pylons. The progression to the scar 
tissue phase of SCP-610 infection is observed in full course as DI2 
spasms on the ground, his entire body being overtaken by the sickly 
tan flesh almost entirely after 45 seconds. DI2 is terminated by a 
gunshot from DI1 and his equipment left where it is. The spread of 
SCP-610 over Dl2 continues even after death of the body until all 
movement ceases. 


As Perimeter Control is relaying new instructions to DI1 and DI3 
regarding this situation there is a shift in the ground covering in Site 
C where Dl2's body is. Video feed shows the flesh-like growth 
splitting open beneath his body and a series of ropey tendrils 
coming from within the gap to pull his corpse inside. This opening 
closes up quickly, total time elapsed, three seconds. 


Unlike my dream, though, he never looks at her. 


In her dream, the figure stares at something on the ground at its 
feet. A long dark bundle, dripping with rain and hidden by shadow. 
She's afraid to look at it, paralyzingly so, and in her dream it is this 
bundle, not the figure's gaze, that makes her writhe on her bed in 
terror as she tries desperately to wake up. He still knows she's 
there. He still waits for her arrival to pierce her with the gaze | fear 
so much, but it's the dark thing at his feet she cannot see, and that 
she wakes each time she begins to comprehend. 


A long dark bundle at his feet, the size of a man. 


The part that really scares me, guys? Not dream scared, but real 
world chilled? | think | know what she's afraid to see. 


Well. | say that. | mean, it's stupid, really. There's no way it could be. 
Not in the dreams of two people who've been dreaming longer than 
they've known one another. It's not possible that what she fears to 
see could be connected to my dream at all, is it? But still. Part of me 
wonders about that man sized something lying prone in the puddles 
before the figure in our dreams. 


I'm scared it's me. 


~yoric 


Pitter-patter 


Pitter-patter, the raindrops fall. On this All Hallow's Eve, | sit in my 
armchair close to the roaring flame, trying to gather what little 
warmth circling about the empty rooms into my cloak. Footsteps jolt 
me awake from the twilight before slumber, fear coursing through 
my frail bones momentarily, before subsiding as | realize they were 
nothing more than the sound of raindrops dashing themselves 
against my window-pane. For a brief, terrifying second, | glimpsed 
the shadows upon the living-room wall grow long and wave to me, 
the flickering, dying light of the fireplace flame playing tricks upon 
my eyes. For a brief, terrifying second, | glimpse once again my two 
erstwhile companions. The two, unfortunate souls. | grow old, too 
old for nights like these, too old since life and youth had been taken 
away from me - that cold All Hallow's Eve... 


"Another case for you, Inspector. It's urgent too, the messenger 
sounded mighty worried." 


"Really now. Just as | was about to clock off for the evening." 


An errant sigh escaped my lips as | pick up my hat, just moments 
ago hung upon the rack. Putting one arm through the sleeve of my 
trench-coat, | turn to Superintendent Chatmers and Gilroy, 
beckoning with a quick motion of my head. 


"Well, lads, let's get busy. Death waits for nobody, and we can't 
have a killer loose on Halloween, can we now? God forbid, it might 
actually cause a scare." 


Grumbling, Gilroy grabbed his own hat and coat, palming his badge 
into his inner pocket, and slinging on his holster. "Well, that'll be a 
bloody shame, won't it? At least there's some excitement in the 
neighborhood, me wife was complaining about how Halloween no 
longer gave her the chills." 


Chatmers, who had cocked his revolver, and was adjusting his belt, 
replied with a jaunty grin, "Well, Gil, that's cos' she's used to seeing 
a terrifying cow-faced monster at home eating her food and sleeping 
in her bed everyday, as it is. | dare-say, after seeing you without 
pants, nothing scares her anymore." 


"Shuddup, Chatmers, at least, I'll be going home tonight for a 
respectable dinner, not sleeping in some floozy's house and fu-" 
"Alright, can it, you two. We've got a job to do." 


| tried to hide a grin of my own, as the three of us stepped out of the 
station doors, into the cold, rainy afternoon.