removed from the room amid confusion from all 
personnel involved in the incident. SCP-909 later 
explained the situation to uninvolved personnel and was 
placed in his holding cell. Dr. was discharged 
from duty and given a Class-B amnesiac. 


Addendum 909-2: 


Then, one night, he heard that terrible scream. 


He charged toward the sound. His pulse roared across his ears; 
every step he took was a thunderbolt, propelling him closer to 
destiny. When he rounded that corner, his pistol was already out. 
His palms did not sweat. His hands did not shake. He was ready — 
ready for anything. 


Anything except for a woman's blood freezing at room temperature. 


Delicate crystals of scarlet extruded from her pores, merging into an 
intricate, expanding web. It looked like a beautiful crimson snowflake 
placed under a microscope — except for the tattered body dangling 
at its center. Ten minutes later, the snowflake evaporated. All that 
was left was that shredded bloodless corpse. 


He asked his commanding officer what to write it up as. The old man 
pulled him aside, patted him on the back, and told him to 'pass this 
one off to the boys down the hall. 


It means that sometimes, a crime can't be solved with shiny badge 
and a gun. Sometimes, you just have to walk away. Sometimes, you 
just leave it up to the boys down the hall. 


Nowadays, Jackson often forgets that he even carries a gun. 


He's not twenty minutes into the case and he's already figured he'll 
be passing it along. According to SWAT, the suspect used some 
sort of IED in the kitchen. She then proceeded to practice a swan- 
dive out of the apartment's seventh story window. One of the officers 
had already texted him a snapshot of the dent she left. 


Then she stood up, dusted herself off, and got into a car with 
someone else. 


Next, there's the victim: Travis Wilhelm. 23 years old; a white, 
upper-class engineering major and self-proclaimed ‘political 
provocateur. About eight or nine thumb-swipes through his 
numerous social media accounts gave Jackson a more accurate 
impression: professional shit bag. Two hours prior to his death, he 
was posting comments urging his followers to ‘exercise their 2nd 


amendment rights' against some journalist he didn't fancy. 


But that isn't the reason Jackson intends to leave this one up to the 
boys down the hall. The reason for thatis on account of Mr. Travis 
Wilhelm being — to put it simply — ‘still alive’. 


It's easy to miss if you don't know what to look for. And who's going 
to look? There's over a dozen holes in his chest and nearly a gallon 
of his blood on the floor. What are you gonna do, check his pulse? 
But when one of the officers snaps a photo, Jackson catches it — 
just as the camera flashes. 


The pupils contracted. 


Jackson pulls out his phone and pretends he just got a text. "Hold 
up, fellas." The three other officers stop what they're doing and turn 
to face him. 


"Well, shit. Guys, gimme a minute alone in here, alright?" It's not 
protocol, but they do it anyway. One by one, the officers shuffle out 
into the hall. They can feel it, too. This is outside their jurisdiction. 
Jackson's just giving them deniability — an excuse to leave so they 
can all go home and keep pretending like this universe makes any 
goddamn sense. 


Once they're gone, Jackson settles into a chair and starts swiping 
down his contact list. He's hunting for the special number. It's the 
one he's supposed to call when things like this happen; when 
corpses move and blood turns to ice. 


He's still swiping when he catches movement from the corner of his 
eye. 


Pretend you don't see it, he tells himself. His pulse is pounding. 
Fucking hell. Why does he have so many numbers on this thing? 
And why can't he swipe faster? 


He's half-way down the list when his eyes dart up. He immediately 
regrets it. Out of all the fucked up things he prepared himself to see, 
it's the absence of a corpse that gets him to drop the phone. 


"How unfortunate." 


Detective Jackson Worth freezes. The voice is right behind him. He 
can feel its breath; fetid and cold, like icy waves rolling across the 
shoreline of his nape and collarbone. His hand dips down for the 
pistol tucked under his coat. 


"I seem to have broken this vessel." 


He spins around, his pistol already out. His palms do not sweat. His 
hands do not shake. He is ready — ready for anything. 


Anything except for a corpse's spinal cord extricating itself from cold, 
dead flesh, crawling toward him upon hundreds of spindly, delicate, 
razor-sharp legs. 


"I suppose yours will have to do." 


My Dearest Mary 


FIELD REPORT. 
ATTACHED: Copies of documents found on the instance's person. 
ATTACHMENTS: 


DOCUMENT #AF1293-1: 
My Dearest Mary, 


| hope this letter finds you well. | do not know if it will 
reach you timely. Infrastructure here in Tukuk is poorly 
and | have not yet received any of your letters, though | 
am sure you write. | love you, and you are forever in my 
prayers. 


The construction of the Church is going slowly, and the 
natives condemn the structure as an affront to their god. 
They are heretical pagans and do not know of Jesus 
their Savior. | hope God's grace will fill their ears and 
they will be swayed. 


The sanitation here is terrible. The miasma from the 
excrement and the swamps poisons the men. Raol was 
bitten by a native, and he is overcome by an illness 
causing frothing at the mouth, but | do not fear as | know 
God watches over me and | am in your prayers. 


Yours in Christ, Robert. 
DOCUMENT #AF 1293-2: 
My Dearest Mary, 


| doubt that what | write will reach you, but | find solace in 
the thought of you safe in the Mother Country, safe and 
ever-faithful. | do hope you do not worry yourself over 


me; for | am guided by Providence, although | am 
comforted by the sure knowledge of your prayers. 


The persecution in Tukuk is worse than we thought. 
They have imprisoned me in a cage with metal bars. | 
am surrounded by vicious rogues, guilty of murder and 
worse. Not the prisoners, no. Most of the prisoners are 
deranged, and are incapable of speaking coherently. | 
fear they were driven mad by captivity. There are 
hundreds of them, and all they do is scream. But the 
guards! They are murderers. | hear that they will roast us 
and eat us. | attempted to converse with them and 
negotiate my ransom, but instead they threatened and 
drugged me. | hope | will see you again soon. 


Yours faithfully, Robert. 
DOCUMENT #AF1293-1: 
My Dearest Mary, 


| have almost given up all hope. All that drives me is the 
knowledge that you love me and pray for me. | do not 
pretend to know our Lord's machinations, but | doubt | 
will ever see you again. | await meeting God in heaven, 
and someday you, but not soon, | pray. 


| am in the same cage, somewhere in the belly of a huge 
powered carriage, somewhere in the peninsula. How 
ludicrous. The native guards dragged me by the collar 
they had placed around my neck, as if treating an 
animal, into a room where they exchanged me with other 
natives. | had hoped they would ransom me, but no. | 
think they are taking me to my execution. | hope you are 
safer than I. 


Robert. 


Item Recovery Log: 
An instance of SCP-1845-3 resembling a common raccoon was 
recovered from the Animal Shelter, Florida, following the 


instance demanding he be ransomed by SCP-1845-1, and insisting 
he was 'spreading the Word of God to the uncivilised Southern 
natives.’ Council employees and volunteers were administered 
Class-A amnesics. Instance is currently in transit via convoy to 
Site-19. 

SIGNED: Agent Boyles. 


My Hell 


| thank the Lord in Heaven that the SCP-Foundation found me. They 
take good care of me, make sure | get visitors, let me listen to 
music. I've been told that others aren't treated as well as | am, so | 
thank the Lord again. But for all their hospitality, my life is still a 
living hell. 


| made a deal with somebody many years ago. At the time, | was 
young and foolish, and thought myself invincible. | performed a 
summoning ritual from an old book on a dare. The book said that if 
the ritual was completed properly, he who did so would be immortal. 
So | did, and have regretted it ever since. 


The exact details of what happen have been blurred by the passing 
of years, but by the end of it all, something had placed a curse on 
me, and | started to turn to concrete. At first, | was happy with my 
situation. Immortal and invincible. It seemed like the perfect life. | 
bragged to my friends about how | would see the end of the Earth. 


But as time passed, | found it harder and harder to move. Panic set 
in. | desperately tried to tell my friends, but they thought me mad. As 
they told me before | was thrown into the asylum, they had played 
along at first because they thought | was drunken. It had become too 
much for them, and they put me away, for my own safety. 


For a time, it wasn't so bad. The people at the asylum took good 
care of me, and genuinely tried to help. Eventually, though, the 
doctors and therapists started to slip away. | was beyond their 
treatment, and did not appear to require any care. Finally, when the 
last one deemed me a hopeless case, they threw me into solitary 
confinement, and forgot me. 


My life from then on out became a true hellhole. No, | should not say 
"my life". Life is being able to walk, and eat and drink and make 
merry. To know the presence of others and be free. But my time 
there was none of these things. 


Immortal and invincible. The two qualities | had desired, and me, 
trapped in a small cell, unable to take advantage of them. In danger 
of going mad, | turned to God, praying for salvation, praying that my 
curse would be lifted. Praying that | would one day walk again a free 
man. 


During the first stint in hell, it worked. | remained as sane as | could, 
for | knew that God would grant me reprieve. And indeed, one day, 
men took me away from my confinement. For the first time in ages, | 
knew the sun, fresh air, others' faces. True, | remained immobile, 
but the Lord could, no, would, fix that. 


| was wrong. Shortly after my release, | was thrown into another, 
smaller cell, in another asylum. | thought God had taken me from my 
cell to taunt me with the prospect of freedom before casting me 
deeper into the pit. It was then that | thought myself mad. Since | 
never dreamed, my thoughts made themselves manifest through 
visions. Or were they real? | was never sure. 


Thought after thought tormented me in my private circle of hell. 
What if the world ended, and nobody was around to tell me? | would 
be all that was left, and never know it. My body would remain the 
same whilst the world rotted around me, until nothing was left but 
me and my thoughts. And then those would decay, and | would be 
trapped within a hollow shell. | could scream all | wanted, but who 
would hear me? They had thought me insane, and now | was. 


Eventually, the Foundation came, and took me away. They placed 
me in the nice room, with the music and the people and the light. | 
keep my outward actions normal, so as to not frighten them away. 
What else can | do? 


But inside, I'll always go back to my own corner of hell, a place filled 
with nothing but darkness and myself. How can | be sure | ever left? 
| became mad. Sometimes, I'm not in my room, but back in hell. 
Eventually, | suspect, I'll go back there, and be there to stay. 


If the Foundation is reality, then thank God for it. If my hell is reality, 
then that is all there is. No Foundation, no God, no anything. 


Just me and my thoughts. And the dark. 


My Loever, the Dog: The Incredibly True Story of Kain 
Pathos Crow 


My Lover, the Dog - Part one 


I'd always heard about Kain Pathos Crow, but I’d neve understood 
what he really was. He was a dog, but like that, so much a man. 


We were alone, | his new lab asisstant, supposed to be an extra set 
of hands, or paws. 


"Could you hand me that?"he asked. | caught mystelf watching him, 
intent on his physicue. How could he talk, or do anything? He moved 
like a dancer. "What?" 


"Nevermind" he said, jumping upp to the table to grab his beakers.. 
Hed had installed a set of stools, to reach up. 


"Dr. Crow? | asked, but he stopped me. 


"| dont want to talk about my disability." "It’s hard enough tp be the 
laughing stock of the Fundation, | dont want to be that in my own 
office!" He scared me, but | saw his pain. 


Please Mr. Crow", | said, "| know that your hurting. | just want to be 
abel to help!" 


"No!" He Barked at me, throwing his test tubes to the ground. 


"Every day oits the same things! What would you know about how | 
feel/?!" Because he was standing at eye-to-eye level with me, for the 
first time | could really look at him. | saw his humanity... 


and | felt like | wanted him. 


His expresion melted, and | could see tears well in his dog face. "Mr. 
Crow, did you ever havbe a wife?" | asked 


"| did" he said "but she never knew what happened to me, or about 
that | became a dog. She would hate because | did this to myself." 


"Dr. Crow, | dont hate you." | said ,and kissed him. 


It lasted a long time, and soon we were on the ground, kissing 
passionately. | slowly reached down his underside, and saw his tail 
wagg. It was so worng, but so right. We made love there. 


Sent from my iPhone 


Document 909-a 


Wow! You've just found yourself your very 
own Little Mister, a limited edition collection 
from Dr. Wondertainment! 


Find them all and become Mr. Collector!! 


01. Mr. Chameleon 

02. Mr. Headless 

03. Mr. Laugh 

04. Mr. Forgetful ¥ 

05. Mr. Shapey 

06. Mr. Soap 

07. Mr. Hungry 

08. Mr. Brass 

09. Mr. Hot 

10. Ms. Sweetie 

11. Mr. Life and Mr. Death 
12. Mr. Fish 

13. Mr. Moon 

14. Mr. Redd (discontinued) 
15. Mr. Money 

16. Mr. Lost 

17. Mr. Lie 

18. Mr. Mad 

19. Mr. Scary 

20. Mr. Stripes 


Addendum 909-3: The document shown was in the 
possession of SCP-909. SCP-905 states that it "lost its 
copy in the breeze", SCP-913 apparently ingested its 
own copy. SCP-917 had held a similar list which can be 
found in Document 917-a. SCP-920 claims to have 
misplaced its copy. - Dr. 


« SCP-908 | SCP-909 | SCP-910 » 


Mystery 


No, Clement, I'm serious. And yes, | do know a little bit of Chinese, 
so | know when someone says "bullshit". Just because Intelligence 
Agents are required to know everything doesn't mean we actually 
know everything. 


Oh, you want an example? Alright, fine. We've got some time to kill 
before this training session is over, and | /ove talking. So sit right 
back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of... wow, blank faces? Jesus 
Phyrexian Christ, don't you kids watch old TV shows? Anyways... 


A few months ago, the higher-ups forced me to take some PTO. | 
decided to visit a good friend of mine, Susie. Since Clef stole my 
access Card for the Sites, | took her offer to spend the night. | take 
the guest room, but Susie comments that the bed sucks and since 
her boyfriend is out, | could crash on her bed if | didn't like it. Nothing 
inappropriate went on, for the record. Too many of my IA colleges 
like to imply they are James Bonds, sleeping with hot girls every 
night. It's mostly bullcrap, and besides, her boyfriend would kill me. 


Anyways, I'm doing some Foundation work in the Guest Room, 
because the higher-ups forgot to confiscate my tertiary work tablet. 
It's around two in the morning, when | get a hankering for some 
Cinnamon Toast Crunch. | stop working, and walk downstairs to 
nosh. I'm surprised by the lights being on, and Susie sitting straight- 
backed on the couch, watching TV. | say hi, she says "Hello", and | 
get my food.