Output: Tiny (5cm x 5cm x 2cm) origami music box. 
Upon opening the box, a clear melody identified as the 
song “Ellen’s Third Song” could be heard by all 
researchers in the area facility, including those who 
should be well out of range of being able to hear. Subject 
D-914-86 began singing along with the music, despite 
not showing any previous indication of knowing either 
Latin or taking singing lessons. After the conclusion of 
the piece, subsequent experiments confirmed that she 
could not sing. 


Input: One (1) copy of “How to Win Friends and 
Influence People” by Dale Carnegie, as submitted by 
D-914-77. 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: One (1) slightly warmer copy of “How to Win 
Friends and Influence People”. D-914-77 was sent back 
to their cell and monitored, showing no anomalous 
behavior after a week of review. 


along a bone pipe that was shuddering like an old man in the cold. 


They ran, keeping just ahead of...whatever it was, hearing 
splintering explosions and shivering cracks all around them. They 
finally came to a snarled crawlway, barely a few feet wide, that was 
the only way forward. Two dived in, doing a low crawl, trying to will 
himself forward like a snake, knowing the passage was only about 
fifteen feet long, easy, wouldn't take any time. Lon hesitated, that 
tiny, black gap looking like a mouth, before a sudden burst of steam 
behind her sent her shrieking forward, sobbing as she started to 
crawl, calling after Two. 


Two ignored the growing vibration all around him, the creaking ping 
near his head, and slid free of the opening, he turned...and saw 
nothing. No Lon, no sudden bursting...just the empty hole. He 
looked around, hands twitching, thinking, then slid back inside, trying 
to find Lon and physically drag her out. He could hear her, muffled, 
probably behind the next turn...and his flashlight revealed a solid 
wall of three thick, flaking white pipes. This was it, he was sure of it, 
the tunnel was right here...and then he heard the pitiful scream 
behind them. Lon begging, pleading, screaming for him. Two stared, 
eyes wide, then slammed his flashlight against the pipe. It burst, 
sending a reeking, corrosive slime over his hand, making him reel 
back down the crawlway, screaming as it ate in to his flesh. He 
stood outside the opening, holding his steaming hand away from 
him, trying not to look at the exposed bone. 


“Oh...oh jesus...Lon...Lon, I'm sorry, I'll get help, I'll get someone, 
just sit tight, | swear...” 


He bolted down the hall, his flashing seeming to dim in time to the 
rising sound. 


Lon panted, screaming for Two, hearing the hard bang on the other 
side of the pipe and his sudden, shrieking retreat. She sobbed, her 
whole body shaking, and slowly started to work her way backward, 
crawling on her belly, crying as she muttered some half- 
remembered prayer. 


When her feet pushed against a sold wall of pipe, she couldn't even 


muster a fresh scream. 


She was trapped, the space not much bigger then a coffin, helpless. 
She sobbed, face on the ground of warm, fuzzy pipes...and noticed 
the silence. Aside from her cries, there was nothing. No pinging, no 
cracks or explosions...nothing. She raised her head in the barely 
illuminated dark, looking around. She was alive. It was calming 
down. They'd come for her, Two would get help. She was getting out 
of here. She fought back her growing claustrophobia, looking along 
the walls. She noticed a small gap at the ceiling, and started shifting 
to get a better look, twisting back...and finding only the open end of 
a pipe. Lon sagged back, closing her eyes, tears leaking down her 
face. 


The first sticky drips she simply assumed were the same tears. Then 
one fell on her mouth...and it was sweet. She opened her eyes, and 
saw a thick, quivering mass of amber goo splatter from the mouth of 
the pipe, coating her and the floor as it surged out. She coughed, 
shifting back...it was honey. Honey, or something like it. At least it 
wasn't molten lead or acid...then she saw the level rising. It wasn't 
draining. The pipes were packed too close. She looked around her 
tiny chamber with horror rising much faster then the honey oozing 
up her sides. Lon beat on the walls the floor, the ceiling, trying to 
block the pipe with her hands, heedless of provoking the thing 
more...as the honey rose and rose, as cloying sweet as a school 
age lover. 


Her last, gasping breath was sweet and stale with honey and 
screams. 


Two ran, totally lost now, his flashlight dimming by the moment, the 
sound of cracking and bursting pipes starting to trail off. Maybe it 
was done, finally. 015 was protective, but it didn't seem vengeful. 
People had gotten hurt before, and gotten out fine. It happened. 
They'd find a way to get Lon out too. She might even be out already, 
just found another way to get around the blockage. That was 
probably it, she was out of this stupid place. Six was a shame...but 
why had that lunatic opened the case? What the hell had possessed 
him? 


He was still musing on this when he tripped over a unseen pipe in 
the dark around his feet. 


He pitched forward, yelping a half-surprised, half-terrified bark as he 
went sprawling. Or he should have went sprawling. Instead, he fell 
past the floor, in to a yawning, open pit of a pipe, the slick, oozing 
sides plunging down at a sharp angle. He screamed, trying to grab 
something to stop or slow himself, but the walls were oozing and 
thick, his downward slide gaining speed. His dimming flashlight 
showing a seemingly endless tunnel stretching off below him. He 
slid, and slid, a scum of stinking, smooth ooze sticking to his clothes 
and skin. 


The tube twisted, banging him against the wall as he followed it, his 
flashlight jittering and starting to flicker. Panic slammed down like a 
fist, Two grabbing the light and trying to keep it still, pleading with it, 
staring at the lamp bulb as it dimmed more and more. It surged a 
moment, then flickered out, the darkness pressing to his eyes like 
cloth, the Agent slipping down faster and faster, screaming until he 
was hoarse, screaming until his throat bled, screaming even as he 
passed well beyond the physical boundaries of that tangled web of 


pipes. 
Days later, when his skin started to shred off, it was almost 
welcome. 


SCP-015 Recovery Report 


Agent Two: MIA 

Agent Six: MIA 

Agent Lon: MIA 

MRV-889236 Status: Unrecovered 


Data deemed non-vital in light of lost staff. SCP-015 
classification level review suggested. 


Pockets 


Someplace, in a dirty, damp basement, there sat a figure ina 
rocking chair. 


A hanging lantern swung directly over the figure's bald head, dimly 
reflecting itself on his sweat. An unbuttoned leather vest revealed 
his gray, distended belly. 


He rocked back and forth anxiously with a wide, toothy grin on his 
wrinkled face. 


He reached for his liquor, then began singing softly to nobody in the 
empty basement. 


Clumsy bear is roaming about the woods 
He picks up cones and sings his songs 


He could smell what he would not be able to describe as ozone. 
There was muffled screaming, and he could hear the latch to the 
basement being rustled. 


More screaming now, but he wasn't sure what was producing the 
noise. The old man shook his head and closed his eyes. 


A cone sprang back in his face 
And it hit him good 


The old man took to the fallout better than most of his friends did. He 
watched everyone die. He watched himself die. Such things 
happened. You couldn't dwell too long on them. 


A black puddle materialized on the ground in front of him. 


This made the bear angry 


So he stomped his foot! 


The man sang with his smile intact, but there was confusion in his 
eyes. There was confusion enough to warrant another swig of the 
clear liquor. He saw the reflection of his face, smiling, rise up 
through the puddle of black. 


The bear screamed, ow! ow! 
He stepped again on this acorn. 


"You don't want this," he said in his inquisitive drawl, turning his 
head slightly "go fuck yourself." 


His reflection smiled at him, seeing that it was himself. He sank back 
into the bubbling black circle and the old man continued to rock in 
his chair. 


The testing subject felt the tingle of his flesh being emancipated as 
he ran through the endless, acidic corridors of the pocket. He had an 
upset stomach, too. 


Clumsy bear is roaming about the woods 
He picks up cones and sings his songs 


Where was that sound coming from? Finding it was the only thing to 
do here. 


He turned a corner a bit too sharply and planted his hand on the dry 
frying pan walls. He took solace that the only limit to pain was 
greater pain, so he recovered and continued on toward a chained 
old wooden door in the distance. 


His eyes began to burn to the nerve. This was difficult to ignore. He 
closed his eyes and charged into the door. Everything was rotten, so 
this wood would give. 


No give. 


A cone sprang back in his face 


And it hit him good 


He opened his eyes, and in the brief, white pain he could see that 
there was no old man lurking around the corners. 


But his eyelids were beginning to burn off now, and his lack of skin 
meant covering them was going to cause more problems than it was 
worth. 

This made the bear angry 

So he stomped his foot! 

The singing was just beyond that door, he could hear it so... no, he 
couldn't hear anything anymore. Something was wrong with his 
eardrums. 

This whole situation was frying his brain. 

The bear screamed, ow! ow! 

He dragged the man through the walls, through time, deep into the 


maze. 


He was now gliding, exceptionally still, watching the man run 
through the halls of the labyrinth. He approached the human like he 
approached everything: at roughly 4 kilometers an hour. 


He sunk into the wall, and glided, hidden, alongside the man in the 
corridor. Absorbing the burning flesh caused him a sort of 
gratification that he couldn't really place. He didn't care though, he 
couldn't care, he didn't really have what you would call higher brain 
function. 

He just did this one thing, and... 

This made the bear angry 

He didn't do anything else. 


He poked his head up through the floor and looked stupidly at 


himself in the rocking chair. 


"You don't want this," he said in his inquisitive drawl, turning his 
head slightly "go fuck yourself." 


He sank back in the floor. 


He laughed quietly to himself. 


And he rocked in his chair in the isolated cell underneath a 
sprawling labyrinth of tight tunnels, underneath a large, decaying 
facility in a cold part of a dead world. 


Poem found on a bronze tablet, ca. 300 CE 


Hail, holy Sophia, the messenger divinely-appointed 
Of bronze, shining beneath virgin oil, God-anointed. 
In the hand of the Lord you were taken as His lyre, 

A sacred tool, to awaken in the nations holy desire. 


Lament, O Asia! for you have given our siby! death! 
The chorus of a myriad sighs draws a single breath. 
But fear not, O Asia! for the sibyl's precious dower 
Renders the kingdom of heaven her pleasant bower. 


The metalworker hones her craft, seeking perfection, 
But what is there more perfect than your reflection 

Caught in the gleaming silver on Demetrius's breast, 
Upon whose authority your life was so cruelly wrest? 


"Whore," is on the lips of every Mekhanite patriarch; 
Atop pulpits, presbyters denounce you, "Heresiarch!" 
Against you are all the worldly authorities arranged 
With epistles and schemata to make hearts inflamed. 


Yet unbreakable was your faith to the God Unbroken! 
Fearlessly you prophesied to our nation now-chosen, 
Persecuted as we are by neighbor and by magistrate, 
With ceaseless patience we await our destined fate. 


When we witness the craftsman of heaven and earth 
Break open the firmament, to unleash unlimited mirth, 
There shall be much weeping and gnashing of teeth 
As all the slaves of the flesh howl savagely beneath. 


Come, Christ Jesus, you who were of the Spirit born, 
Descend with the Six Angels through heavens torn! 
Hasten too Ezekiel who rides within the Lord's wheel 
Toward the shrouded east for the architect of steel. 


The architect's skill, and the Six Angels’ supervision, 
United with Jesus’ will, and holy Sophia's precision, 
Join as one to fulfill Christ Jesus' prophecy to raise 
The third, infinite Temple of the Lord in three days. 


And there in the house of the Lord | will surely dwell 
With you, holy Sophia! How gladly my heart will swell! 
For there is none upon the earth whose love is sweet 
As the love of Wisdom, she who extinguishes all deceit. 


Person of Interest - Mr. Dark 


Person of Interest File #D-0012 


Name: Mr. Dark 


Known Aliases: Dark is reported to use many different first names, 
but apparently never attempts to completely conceal his identity. 


Description: Reports vary. Usually stated to be a Caucasian male 
apparently in his mid-60s, approximately 168 cm (5'6"), 80 kg 
(180lbs), grey hair. 


Date of Birth (If known): No documented information available. 


Reason For Interest: Reported to be the senior partner of Group of 
Interest Marshall Carter and Dark, and to be their primary source of 
anomalous items. 


Rules of Engagement: Sightings and other noted activity to be 
reported via Protocol 12. [If you are not cleared for Protocol 12, 

report any information to your direct superior and take no further 
action.] 


Biography: Foundation personnel should be aware that unlike most 
Persons of Interest, the nature and even the existence of a "Mr. 
Dark" are in dispute. Reports of a Mr. Dark, generally as a creator/ 
purveyor of anomalous items, have existed for over 500 years [see 
notes from the Royal Society for the Investigation of the Paranormal 
for reports prior to 1918]. However, no confirmed evidence that such 
a person exists as a unique individual is available. The following 
theories are given relatively equal credence: 


1. Dark is a unique individual, who has presumably used anomalous 
means to extend his life. 

2. Dark is a long-lived, non-human entity of undetermined nature. 

3. Dark refers to a family long-involved with anomalies. Most reports 


Note: D-914-77, and two guards have been reported as 
missing. Security footage shows the guards opening 
several doors and escorting D-914-77 off the premises, 
and driving them to a nearby restaurant. When a security 
team was sent there to retrieve the subject, a conflict 
began between the patrons of the restaurant and the 
security team, with the patrons refusing to allow the 
security team close to D-914-77. An order was given with 
O4 clearance to destroy the location, as a possible 
memetic anomaly may have occurred. Although the 
remains of D-914-77 have not been positively identified, 
security footage suggests that no one escaped the 
building prior to its demolition. Local media have been 
alerted to the fact that the destruction was caused by a 
broken gas main in the restaurant's kitchen. 


Note: A full memetic screening will be made whenever 
media provided by SCP-914 is consumed. Please refer 
to Incident Report 914-1R6187 for further details. 


Name: Dr. Manheim 

Date: 03/25/18 

Total Items: One (1) USB drive with a text file containing 
the source code of Creeper. 


Note: Creeper was one of the first computer viruses ever 
made, and the systems it operated on are now 100% 
obsolete. Organic materials have been intentionally 
omitted from this test, in case SCP-914 decides to 
translate that into an actual biological virus. A hazardous 
materials team was on standby to make sure nothing 
that came out of 914 presented a threat to the facility or 
its occupants. 


Input: Creeper source code on USB drive. 

Setting: Very Fine