There is one thing to 
keep in mind: We've 
been out of contact 
with the tribe in 
question for more than 
twelve years. I'm not 
about to put the blame 
on anyone within this 
organization. It's just 
that the group 
appeared to drop off 
the face of the Earth 
without warning. Their 
village was 
abandoned, and 
neighbouring tribes 
seemed just as 
confused as we were. 


To be out of contact 
with a tribe for that 
long? If the Brazilian 
government found out 
that FUNAI had gotten 
so negligent, our 
already run-dry budget 
would be sliced in half. 
Of course, I'm 
overreacting, but the 
strange nature of this 
situation is not 
something to take 
lightly. We need to 
keep tabs on the 


indigenous 
populations in this 
region, not just for 
information gathering. 
Or anthropological 
study. But because 
they rely on us for 
protection. And if we 
aren't around, then 
what's stopping 
outside forces from 
making a mess of our 
work? Of their 
livelinood? 


It's too soon to 
determine what the 
reason for their 
movement was (as I'm 
not about to actually 
consider that they did 
vanish from the face 
of the planet). It's too 
soon to even assume 
it's them. The only 
way to find out is to 
make contact, and I've 
assembled four men 
to assist me with 
getting to the bottom 
of this. We should be 
leaving tomorrow 
morning. 


Aside: Based on records stored in the Javari Valley 
FUNAI HQ, the four personnel mentioned are as follows: 


¢ Joaquin: Linguistics specialist 
¢ Fabian: Linguistics specialist 
¢ Vincent: Physician 


¢ Devon: Security detail 


Of the aforementioned personnel, none were 
documented to have had any previous contact with the 
tribe, and are not believed to have been involved in any 
anthropological studies regarding the tribesmen. 


25/04/2003: We 
decided to set up 
camp for the night 
next to a river. | 
believe this river 
actually intersects with 
three different 
indigenous 
populations if one 
were to travel 
downstream. | reckon 
it should still be 
another couple of 
days to the north 
before we come upon 
their general area. 
And that's when the 
situation gets sticky. 
Nobody wants to get 
themselves into 
trouble in the heart of 
the Amazon. 


| suppose it doesn't 
hurt to ruminate on the 
tribe. I'm more 
connected to this 
particular group of 
Indians than any in the 
region. | was actually 
a part of the initial 
discovery party when | 
first joined FUNAI!! It's 


been 30 long years 
since, hasn't it? 
Fabian keeps floating 
over my shoulder, 
joking about how old | 
am every once ina 
while. And only 
Joaquin laughs, but 
am | truly surprised? 


Speaking of Joaquin. 
We had a nearly hour- 
long discussion about 
the most horrible 
things. Basic drinking 
night talk. | 
entertained the 
horrifying idea of 
Amazonian wandering 
spiders taking over the 
world. Joaquin 
entertained the idea 
that | managed to 
remain married to my 
wife after all these 
years. | can admit that 
even | laughed at that. 
If only a little bit. 


27/04/2003: | went for 
a walk last night. It 
was too dark to be 
particularly safe, and | 
suppose | should have 
been more careful. 
But maybe it's time | 
lightened up, like 
Fabian and Joaquin. | 
used to be like them 
when | first joined. | 


spent a while last 
night gazing up at the 
stars through the 
foliage, just to let my 
imagination flow. 
About everything. | 
don't get the 
opportunity to do that 
too often these days. 
lt makes me wonder 
what I've missed all 
these years. My 
family. My dear Catia. 


28/04/2003: In the 
early evening, we 
happened upon an 
outpost, which | 
believe was the one 
spotted during the 
initial flyby last week. 
Nothing too 
extravagant: a one- 
room maloca, 
dilapidated and 
abandoned for who 
knows how long. It 
certainly doesn't 
deviate from the way 
they plan their 
settlements if this truly 
is the mark of their 
tribe. A discovery such 
as this is great news, 
and it means we must 
be close to their 
settlement. 


30/04/2003: It took us 


until mid-day 
yesterday to come to 
the village. It wasn't 
long until someone 
found us. Three boys, 
couldn't have been 
much older than ten, 
twelve. Based on the 
patterns painted on 
their foreheads, they 
were definitely 
members of the 
Emparelhada tribe. 
They flanked us. They 
had spears. | made 
sure to be wary about 
my distance and 
mannerisms. But there 
was no preventing 
what happened. 


When they 
approached us, 
Joaquin flashed a 
gesture of peace 
typically used by the 
Indians in the region, 
and a word of greeting 
in their dialect. What 
he received was a 
spear to the thigh. And 
if that wasn't bad 
enough, well, | don't 
know what in God's 
name was in that 
spear, but I've never 
seen that kind of 
damage. At the point 
of contact, his flesh 
exploded in every 


direction?. Gutted his 
leg. It defied logic. He 
fell to the ground at 
once. Fabian vomited. 
As bad as it was, | 
couldn't take my eyes 
off it. 


The damage was 
done. Joaquin couldn't 
be moved without 
causing incredible 
pain, I'm sure. But if 
he wasn't medically 
evacuated, those boys 
would have picked 
him apart. Devon, the 
largest of our group, 
threw Joaquin over his 
shoulder. He was 
screaming. | can 
imagine we all were at 
that moment. But he 
was alive, he was 
safe. 


We ran. Luckily, the 
boys didn't follow us. 
But | think their plan 
was to scare us off. 
It's as if they were 
protecting the village 
from us, or protecting 
us from the village. 
Our fallback plan was 
the maloca. From 
there, we could call for 
a medical evacuation, 
and get him home 
safe. | was going to 


call for 
reinforcements. | had 
to. Anything to ensure 
the safety of the 
FUNAI agents that 
serve under me, and 
the safety of the tribe. 


1/05/2003: Vincent, 
our physician, was the 
most concerned for 
Joaquin. The spear 
ruptured his femoral 
artery, and the impact 
crushed his pelvis. We 
had his thigh bound 
up, administered 
some morphine. But 
Vincent claimed he 
wouldn't last long in 
his condition. That he 
needed evac hours 
ago. 


| called HQ, and our 
flare was visible in the 
early morning. 
Joaquin was airlifted. 
We've been told he'll 
be hospitalized in the 
Immediate Care ward 
of HQ for quite some 
time, and in the Lord's 
name, | pray he'll be 
alright. They're 
sending 
reinforcements 
tomorrow. | told them 
that | won't allow 
anyone to be armed, 


but despite the 
situation, HQ insists 
that we aren't to 
approach that village 
without protection. 


| don't want any lives 
to be lost because of 
this endeavour. | don't 
want to lose you, 
Catia. But we have to 
get to that village. As 
far as I'm concerned, 
it's our duty. 


> Journal Log 2 


Journal Log 2 is independent of the first log and was 
recorded on a page of non-ruled paper. The page was 
seemingly ripped from the personal journal, as its 
material and specifications align with that of the journal. 
It was located in a FUNAI base camp at the south-east 
border of the Javari Valley. The account is framed in the 
same structure as the first account, confirming the 
connection between the two. The account is addressed 
to one Catia Ferreira. However, the address appears as 
though it was subsequently appended to the top of the 


page. 


My dear Catia. | may 
never see you again. 
The damage has been 
done. | hope they 
manage to retrieve 
this letter so that you 
might understand. So 
that you might forgive 
me. Never forget me. | 
love you. 


11/05/2003: They 
dispatched Team 04- 
D a few days ago. The 
team was composed 
of four soldiers, all 
armed with M16s, and 
wearing Kevlar vests. 
They made sure to 
outfit us with the vests 
as well. As if Kevlar 
could do anything to 
prevent against 
exploding spears. We 
entered the village 
from the south but 
weren't met with 
opposition. The village 
seemed vacant. We 
sat in the bush for an 
hour waiting for 
someone, something. 
Nothing. 


Our point of interest 
was a shrine of sorts, 
located in the centre 
of the village. Going 
there was a mistake. 


When reinforcements 
first arrived, the 
soldiers told us of 
reports they had 
gotten. Notices of 
strange behaviour 
within nearby 
indigenous 
populations. As far as 
50 clicks away, ten 
local Indian tribes had 


« SCP-297 | SCP-298 | SCP-299 » 


somehow gotten a 
hold of the same 
occult beliefs. To have 
so many independent 
groups begin to follow 
the same beliefs, the 
same rituals, at the 
same time, was 
unheard of. But that 
shrine, it explained it 
all. 


The building had a 
certain air to it. | can't 
describe it by any 
clinical means, but it 
was euphoric. 
Lingering, but distant. 
Tainted by time and 
emotions. | liken it to 
reminiscing about 
something from your 
childhood, for 
instance. | couldn't 
frame in my mind what 
there was to be joyful 
about, but it was, and 
it is. And then we saw 
the paintings. 


Lord, the paintings. In 
the centre of the 
shrine was a stack of 
murals. There must 
have been hundreds 
of them in there. | 
couldn't count, there 
were just too many. 
But they were 
beautiful—vibrant 


colour composition, a 
calculated level of 
subtlety. 


It was at that point we 
realized our true 
mission. We were to 
collect the paintings 
and bring them back 
to HQ for study. This 
was a discovery 
FUNAI hadn't yet seen 
before. But it was 
clear that the 
movement of these 
artifacts was just not 
possible. There were 
too many. It would 
take multiple trips. 
Time we just didn't 
have. We just sat 
there, poring over 
them. Those 
magnificent murals. 


They told a grand, 
disconnected 
narrative. Some 
fragments showed us 
an endless war, in the 
distant past and future 
to come, between vast 
and incomprehensible 
factions using arcane 
means. But at the 
centre of it allwas a 
being. Not a monster, 
but a protector. It was 
only referred to as the 
'Eljor. 'Eljor the 


Custodian. 'Eljor the 
Mystic. It was going to 
save them, and it was 
going to bring all of us 
too. 


Before we could 
realize what was 
happening, however, 
we noticed something 
off with Vincent. He 
seemed far gone. He 
was the most 
interested in the 
murals, and the most 
distant. | don't know 
how it happened, and 
| don't know why. But 
he felt off. Different. 
He said the paintings 
spoke to him. That a 
presence asked, 
pleaded, for its true 
salvation. He asked us 
what we should do 
about it. Somehow, 
the answer was clear. 
We told him to listen. 
And I'm so Goddamn 
sorry. 


There was a struggle, 
something unseen, 
and | knew that 
Vincent was the cause 
of it. But | didn't have 
the time to react, as 
seconds later, the 
building collapsed in 
on itself. Vincent did it. 


| didn't understand 
how. Or why. 


One of the soldiers 
was crushed, 
paralyzed when the 
roof caved in on him. 
We didn't help him. 
We fled. And then the 
villagers appeared. 
Hundreds of them. 
They fucking came out 
of nowhere and they 
were all fucking 
looking. Staring. They 
saw us. They knew. 
And Vincent was 
staring right on back. 


A few of them grabbed 
at one of the soldiers, 
trying to drag him into 
the crowd. Shots rang 
out, the first couple 
connecting as 
tribesmen crumpled to 
the floor. But then the 
gun was different. It 
had to be the gun. It 
shot out of his hands, 
throwing him 
backwards. He tried to 
scramble away, but 
there was no time. It 
was too late. Fabian 
ran but tripped over 
some of the debris. 
The tribesmen grew 
closer. The next 
second, he was 


screaming, ripping his 
clothes to shreds, 
writhing in pain, his 
strength so great that 
even the Kevlar was in 
tatters. As if he was 
trying to pull one of his 
sick fucking pranks. 
But he wasn't 
laughing. Nobody 
was. 


And then the 
tribesmen swarmed 
the shrine, or 
whatever was left of it, 
and began to reclaim 
the paintings, shoving 
them wherever they 
could fit them. Some 
scrambled to get one 
final glance, exposing 
themselves to as 
many as they possibly 
could. Some cried in 
agony. Others were 
shaking on the floor, 
panting, vomiting, 
bleeding. | saw. 
Opposites. The 
paintings, they were 
doing this, and | knew. 
And so did they. 


| ran. | don't know how 
| escaped. | went, into 
the jungle, nearly ran 
into a tree, but my 
lungs collapsed under 
the weight of unseen 


toxins when | passed 
it. It was them. | went 
back, and my feet 
were on fire. Yet | 
stopped for nothing. 
Villagers were 
crumpled on the 
ground beside me. 
Some were injured, 
some seemingly had 
gone mad, and some 
must have been dead. 
But | saw, and it was 
upon them all, and it 
was upon my men, 
and | knew it was 
upon me too, and 
there was no escape. 
But | didn't care. | 
needed to be the cure. 


| had few rations, no 
comms. There was no 
time to whimper. 
There was only time to 
act, and | did, as | 
crouched into the 
nearest settlement. | 
hid in the wall. There 
were ants, and it was 
cramped, and hot, 
sticky, felt hard to 
breathe. But that's 
where | hid. It was 
safer inside. They 
didn't see. But they 
knew | was near. 


| ate little, only enough 
to survive. | was there 


for days. There were 
unending hours of 
unrest, of torment. 
Screaming. Someone 
out there needed my 
help. There had to be 
a way. But | never 
saw. | only knew. 


The rations emptied. 
So did the water. | 
waited another full day 
before emerging. The 
struggle hadn't ended 
yet, but | needed to 
get out. | needed to 
save someone, 
anyone, at least a 
single person. | need 
to save you, Catia. | 
stumbled out of my 
hole. Dwellings were 
dismantled, foreign 
objects scattered 
about, strange things, 
bodies mangled and 
torn, twisted, off-color, 
most smelling, some 
still shuddered as 
muscles spasmed and 
foam poured out of 
their mouths. The 
paintings had done 
this, but it was 
different. Evolved. 
Advancing. | knew 
they were opposites, 
but now | could see it 
too. 


And then they found 
me. | ran to the shrine, 
never looking back. | 
needed to fix this. For 
FUNAI, my team, the 
tribe. For my dear 
Catia. Lord, forgive 
me. Please, Catia, 
forgive me. Take me 
back. | found a stack 
of paintings, some 
destroyed, most intact. 
| shuffled through 
them, glimpsed at 
random details, 
crushing some to get 
past. | needed to know 
how this all ended. 


Make it all stop. 


Then there were 
paintings of me. My 
family. They knew. | 
saw you there. They 
knew about you. Why 
didn't they tell me of 
your pain? | saw 
myself immolating in 
the flames my work 
caused. | saw you 
confused and alone as 
your mother and | 
fought. The void in 
your heart. You 
couldn't deal with the 
grief of not seeing me. 
We talked, every few 
months via letter. But | 
spared not even a 


single picture, and you 
never even got to hear 
the sound of my voice. 
Please forgive me. 
You grew up alone. 
My heart was 
embedded in my work. 
Always work. 


But the paintings 
showed darker truths. 
Our struggles. You 
were alone. And then | 
was there. | never laid 
a hand on you, but the 
paintings, the 
Goddamn paintings 
say otherwise, and 
Lord help me, | don't 
remember what the 
truth is anymore. They 
changed it. Please. 
Please be okay, Catia. 
| miss you. 


And then it showed 
more recent events. 
The outpost. What 
they did there. How 
was | so blind to it? 
They sacrificed their 
own people to that 
thing! | don't even 
think they knew what 
they were doing. But it 
must have worked to 
appease it. And now | 
know, that there must 
be another way to 
stop it. | Knew, and | 


don't want to know. | 
wept, and even now, | 
weep. They built that 
place to keep it at bay. 
To keep it from 
growing. They were 
trying to save us all. 
But we interfered. We 
did not see. But | do. 
Their only survival, my 
survival, lies in its 
destruction. 'Eljor shall 
cease to be. And | 
fear, so shall I.