Joe Sullivan: The night mass was the only strange thing 
about the town. Sometimes they were loud at night but 
the noise never bothered anyone. People there always 
seemed the same to me, regardless if they were 
following religious fads. 


Addendum B: The following analog transmission was broadcast for 
two minutes each year on 08/23 in a radius of 2km around the town 
until 1968. 


Speaker: Mokim, grab the snake please. 


A young man pulls what appears to be a copperhead 
(Agkistrodon contortrix) snake out of a box located 
behind the pulpit. 


Speaker: Now look on, lovers, as things take shape. 
Take the shape of god. 


The man holding the snake begins waving it around 
above his head. Video feed begins to distort. Camera 
remains fixed on snake handler. 


Speaker: Susan, calm down. 


A woman begins screaming and the speaker moves off 
camera. 


Speaker: | can see your neck over there honey. Calm 
down. Why are you hollerin’? Look how it moves. Look 
how it slides up the floor. 


Sounds of a struggle, screaming stops. 
Speaker: Mokim, put the snake down please. 


Snake handler appears to stumble. Screaming begins 
again, but in reverse. 


Speaker 2: Susan! 


An elongated human head moves slowly past the 
screen. 


Speaker: Put it down, boy! 


Snake appears to enlarge. The area around it appears to 
expand and contract. 


Video feed ends. 


Additional Notes, Commentary 


Morgan is a bit tricky. He was involved in the Appalachian Cult (the 
last Southern Fifthists), but he appears to be the leader of the 
Fifthist entities Western manifestation. The father isn't part of the 
entity at all. So we know it's not a biological thing. Again we arrive at 
this predestination idea, like we're all part of its story, or it rigged the 
game at the start. 


Maybe it built the Rube Goldberg device that is our universe, or at 
least helped? Sabotaged? Why do all of these people need to die? 
We really need to know how this thing thinks, or if it even thinks like 
we do. What does it want from us? 


Dr. : 639, which direction are you currently facing? 


SCP-639: (Laughing, points. Due to effect, this is less 
than helpful.) 


Dr. : You are facing every direction 
simultaneously? 


SCP-639: | see all that is and was and will be from all 
sides and angles and points and- 


Dr. : Yeah, | think we're done here. 


Final Notes: Definite signs of serious mental illness. 
Thinks that the interviewer is not real unless physically 
present to be seen, but as that causes serious visual and 
mental stress to the interviewer, | do not recommend it. 


Note: | was wrong. Just facing away from it seems to 
negate the visual stress, although interviewing someone 
while facing away from them is... awkward. Still, 
preferable to the alternative. 


Interview Log 639-B 
Interviewed: D Class Personnel D-639-9 
Interviewer: Dr. : 


Foreword: Initial interview to establish the effect of 
SCP-639 on D Class Personnel. 


<Begin Log, 1321, oS 
Dr. : Hello, D-639-9. | am Dr. 
D-639-9: (Fidgeting) Ah. Hello. 


Dr. : If you would, please describe your encounter 
with the subject. 


D-639-9: You mean that, that, | don't even know what to 


Keep up the good work, and make sure they don't catch on to you, 
the Jailors or the Fifthists. The first step to helping is understanding. 
Try to understand the entity. 


« Track 3: Uh... | Hub | The Face of God » 


The Face of God 


“Have you ever seen God, Clyde?” 


Morgan sat across from the sandy haired guitarist who, like usual, 
was tuning one of his several guitars. They had come together at 
Morgan’s apartment to write a new song for the EP, but had spent 
the last two hours watching TV and adjusting their instruments 
instead. They had both done this in relative silence, and the 
question from Morgan had broken it abruptly. 


“Eh? What do you mean?” 


Morgan didn’t look up from where he was sitting, staring at a 
handful of song notes. “Exactly what | said. Have you ever seen 
God? Your parents are Catholic, right?” 


Clyde looked at him through squinted eyes. “Yeah, they are. | 
mean, | never really bought into that kind of stuff. Wasn’t really my 
thing.” He pulled on the D string, releasing a mellow tone that filled 
the apartment for a moment and then was gone. “That’s a really 
fucking weird question to ask without following up with something 
though, dude.” 


Morgan continued to peruse the notes. “I was just curious.” After a 
moment of silence, he said, “Because | have.” 


Clyde stopped. There was an electricity in the air that hummed and 
sputtered before dissipating as the statement hung between them. 


“Oh you have?” Clyde laughed before pulling on another string. “Did 
he have a big grey beard and a white cape?” 


Morgan smiled. “No, no beard. No cape, either.” He shuffled the 
papers and sat them aside. “I was raised Baptist, you know. My 
mother, she was devout. | didn’t know about fervor until after we left, 
but she could’ve defined the word. She would get up there in front of 


the church and sing and shout and roll on the floor if the Spirit 
compelled her to.” 


“Baptist? You mean like crazy southern Baptist?” 


“Yeah, | guess you could say that. They talked the talk and walked 
the walk. Never hesitated in their defense of the Lord, never 
wavered in their faith. They were absolute, through and through. 
They all said it, though. They all said that they had seen God.” 


Clyde snorted. “And you took them seriously?” 


Morgan shrugged. “No, not at first. | stayed with my dad a lot when | 
was younger. He was... rational. Him and my mother had met in 
college, and from what | heard they were inseparable.” He looked up 
at Clyde, his face a solid wall of calm, seven miles high. “I guess 
things changed when | was born. My mom wanted to raise me like 
her daddy had raised her. Thought we needed to get right with God. 
That’s why she started going in the first place.” 


The guitarist eyed him skeptically. “Alright. | don’t know where 
you're going with this.” 


Morgan ignored him. “I went to these services, whenever | was with 
my mom. She forced me to, but after a while I... | wanted to. These 
people, | don’t know. They were different. They actually believed 
something. They were all so committed to their Lord, and they didn’t 
even know Him.” 


Clyde stopped mid-breath. “What?” 


“| saw it in their eyes. | don’t know, Clyde, it was like looking at 
stained glass without light behind it. They were trying to catch a 
spark with wet wood, while the whole forest was burning down 
behind them.” 


“|... | don’t know what you're talking about.” 


Morgan’s presence consuming the entire room. “They were 
worshipping a god but it wasn’t actually their god, like worshipping 
its toenail or a hair. Their perspective was so limited, their scope so 
narrow. They...” He trailed off. 


They both sat while the silence of the room wrapped around them 
and tightened its grip. Clyde felt the hairs on the back of his arms 
stand up, and realized that they weren't alone in the room. “Morgan, 
he said, slowly. “What happened to you, before you moved out 
here?” 


” 


He didn’t react immediately, and Clyde felt the presence in the room 
expand around them, feeling them with many long and twisted 
appendages that tapered off somewhere he could not see. He felt 
something slither along his back, onto his shoulders, and around his 
throat. He coughed, and when he looked again, Morgan was staring 
through him. 


“It was at night mass. Reverend Black said that he was going to 
bring snakes, and that we were going to witness the beauty of the 
Lord through his control of the serpents. They- my mother,” he 
hesitated, “they wanted nothing more than this, a physical 
manifestation of everything that they had longed after their entire 
lives.” 


“It wasn't right. None of them could see it, but there was something 
behind the snakes, and Reverend Black, and all of them. It was 
passing through them, and it left behind ripples. Imagine, imagine if 
you drew your hand through the water, you could see the water 
moving as it passed by. That’s all it was, a hand- no, a finger, maybe 
even less than that. The eyelash of a god, Clyde. Once you see the 
eyelash, you can see the eye, and then if you step back, you can 
see the face, and further back... It was all there. Right when 
Reverend Black raised that serpent up, and when the world started 
to twist, | could see through it all and God was behind it. | looked at 
its face, and it looked at me, acknowledged me. Felt me.” 


Morgan reached beside him, and picked up the papers he had been 
looking at. “This is a song, Clyde. | wrote it for... doesn't matter. | 
wrote it, though, and it’s beautiful, but it isn't my words. | didn't write 
this any more than a raindrop writes a canyon. It wasn't until | 
finished it, that | could see what it was.” 


“And... what is that?” 


The Frontman shook the papers. “It’s this thing, this... it's God, 


Clyde! It’s right here, right in front of me. When it saw me that night, 
| knew then that it was something that, | don’t know, something that 
had been with me my entire life. It's everywhere, | can see patterns 
in everything it does. It’s using me, using us, to do... something. 
Maybe it doesn't even know. It just does what it does because that’s 
what it does.” He gasped for breath. “I thought that maybe, maybe 
when we left North Carolina, that would be the end of it. | thought 
maybe it hadn't seen me, but... it did. It always has.” 


Morgan pulled up his bag and stuffed the papers back in. “I’m 
putting this song in my bag, Clyde. | don’t think you'll remember this, 
but you need to go looking in here later and find it, and put it on the 
EP. It wants it. | want it. It's going to do something with this, soon... 
like extending its arms out into the water.” 


“Have you ever seen God, Clyde?” 


Morgan sat across from the sandy haired guitarist who, like usual, 
was tuning one of his several guitars. They had come together at 
Morgan’s apartment to write a new song for the EP, but had spent 
the last two hours watching TV and adjusting their instruments. They 
had both done this in relative silence, neither being much of a talker, 
and the question from Morgan had broken it abruptly. 


Clyde looked up at him and shrugged. “Nah, | don’t think so. How 
come?” 


Morgan paused, his eyes seeming to readjust to the room around 
him. He leaned back, looked at Clyde, and sighed. 


“Nothing, no reason. | was just curious. I... think I’m going to go 
grab a beer. Do you want anything?” 


Clyde shook his head. “I’m cool, man.” 


Morgan stood up and walked slowly out of the room. Clyde 
continued to strum mindlessly at the fretboard, when suddenly a 
handful of pages stuck in Morgan’s bag caught his eye. 


« The Appalachian Scar | Hub | Track 4: You and Me» 


Track 4: You and Me 


"You and Me" 


By Morgan 
Verse | 


You and me, 

Should take a trip across the galaxy, 
And feel the waves of our own energy, 
Everything will come together slowly, 
Quietly. 


You and me, 
We'll float through eternity, 

We'll stay up all night and wonder about 
where we’ve been and where we'll go, 
What we’ve seen and what we'll know, 

Guided by the lights above us, 
So, 


Chorus 


You, and, me, 
Vessels on an open sea, 
You, and, me, 
| want to be there with you, 
To see it all within you, 
Becoming part of everything. 


Verse Il 


You and me, 

Have seen the planets dancing around merrily, 
Have dreamt about those far off things, 
That cannot help but make us sing, 
About the beauty of the skies, 

And how we want to live our lives. 


You and me, 

Will finish our time here one day eventually, 
And when we're gone, they'll look up here, 
and see us grinning ear to ear 
They'll follow us to heaven's arms, 

So infinitely greater, 
something that surpasses, 
all our hopes, and, dreams. 


Chorus 


Bridge 


| don’t want you to think that this is just a passing thought, 
I've dreamt about it ever since the day you came and caught 
my heart. 


I'll give you this, eternity, 
and keep it by your side, 
So | can be there with you, 
when you lay down and die 


But don’t weep for me darling, 
There’s nothing left to fear, 
I’m out here dancing with the stars, 
and soon you'll be here, 
too. 


Chorus X2 


So | found this in Morgan’s bag. | showed it to Brooke, and she’s almost positive 
he wrote it about Rosa. Jackass. But it’s really pretty, so | think we’ re gonna 


put it on the EP. -Clyde 
Sad song, though. - Brooke 


« The Face of God | Hub | Rain Leaking Through A Vendor's 
Roof » 


Rain Leaking Through A Vendor's Roof 


Clyde plucked the metal strings of his guitar with no audience save 
for his pet cat. The sound echoed against the walls of the apartment 
with no other harmony save for quiet breaths and soft purring. 
Clyde’s apartment was plain despite his wealth; the only indication 
of the roots he grew from were the guitars he played, several 
thousand dollars each. Not that anyone in his band knew enough to 
know. 


There was a swipe of shadow against his ear, a sensation of the 
teasing lips of a lover. A shiver raced up his back and the music 
acquiesced to silence. Clyde turned his head, pressing a hand 
against his ear. Odd- his cat was by his feet. 


Clyde found himself with an idea, an inclination. He put the guitar 
away and fetched his phone. In the darkness of the unlit apartment, 
Clyde called his father for the first time in three years. 


“Ms. Silva speaking, how may | help you?” 
“This is Clyde. Let me talk to my dad.” 


The line on the other end was silent for some time. The honeyed 
voice melted to the old nanny he remembered well. “Clyde? It’s 
been so long. Where di-? Your- your father, yes. I'll transfer you right 
away, dear.” 


“...5on.” The voice was gruff, tired. Older than he remembered. 
More worried. He could hear the balding through the phone. “Where 
the hell have you been? | thought you were dead.” 


“Hi dad.” Clyde had to steady his voice. “Look, are you still in 
contac- wait, that’s stupid. Of course you are. | need to ask you a 
favor. Is that annual banquet still happening? The one in Cali, with 
the MCD people? | have a favor to ask you.” 


The annual banquet was grand, as every banquet hosted by 
Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd. had been. Satin curtains lined the walls, 
matching the tablecloths in bold crimson accent, which were 
themselves accented with candles. Save for the fashionably late, 
everyone who was someone was there. Women in classic evening 
gowns reintroduced themselves to acquaintances; men in custom 
tailored suits discussed about nothing in particular. All around, wine 
was shared and the crowd waited for the opening speech. 


Nothing was out of place this evening, as wholly expected by the 
guests. 


The host, wearing a suit that a lesser man could cut himself on, 
addressed the crowd. He thanked Marshall, Carter and Dark for their 
generosity in funding the banquet. He thanked the guests for 
arriving, even those that had arrived mid-speech in a fashionably 
late style. He thanked their yet-to-arrive evening entertainment, an 
unknown group by the label ‘Constellation Starfish’. He thanked the 
chefs and the waiters. He made an unfunny joke that was met with 
polite laughter and then thanked the guests for laughing. After his 
list of thanks, he moved on to advertise for Marshall, Carter and 
Dark’s summer collection. Nothing was out of place at all.