Special Containment Procedures: All volumes of SCP-635-1 are 
to be kept in a dedicated library room at Site- with a climate 
controlled environment maintaining a constant 13 degrees Celsius 
and a humidity of between 35% and 45%. HVAC systems shall use 
HEPA filtration to keep atmospheric contaminants to a minimum. 
Lighting exposure to contained objects shall be limited to 50 lux a 
day. Experiments on original volumes of SCP-635-1 are 
discouraged due to their fragility and will only be approved in an 
attempt at recovery of lost data. A digital copy of the text of 
SCP-635-1 is available in standard encrypted format for research 
purposes with level 3 approval. 


Personnel exposed to SCP-635-1’s text must be quarantined on-site 
until all symptoms of exposure cease, generally 72 hours after 
exposure. Such personnel must only be provided with tools and/or 
equipment as part of a controlled experiment in a secure 
environment. 


Instances of SCP-635-2 and SCP-635-3 are to be contained in 
secure rooms with armored walls and disassembled when no longer 
being used for testing. Any instance of SCP-635-4 or greater is to be 
treated as an imminent containment breach and be neutralized 
immediately via Procedure Capek-Omega-635. 


Description: SCP-635-1 is a set of illuminated manuscripts dating 
from the 13th Century recovered by DoctorH S_ of 

University from the ruins of the Monastery in , Ireland, in 
August of 18 . The manuscripts came into Foundation custody 36 
years later in 19 , adecade after Doctor S_ ’s dismissal from the 
University for [DATA EXPUNGED}]. 


made them afraid, through lies and shame, drove them to greater 
and greater depravities. And it fed off of that. Coward that it was, this 
power had grown old and strong feeding off of that despair. 


Fuck that noise. 


Mary-Ann raised a middle finger at the statue and cloud of smoke 
and smiled, the first time since she had been playing her guitar for 
Naomi. 


“All right. I'll call your bluff. You want her so bad? Come at me.” 


“This is the room.” 


“Right.” DeMontfort punched the blast door. 


Mary-Ann sat bolt upright at the sound of crunching metal. A 
massive dent had appeared in the door, then another, another, and 
then a fist tearing through the metal. The hand withdrew, and the 
puncher tore it wider, wide enough to stick a head through. The 
helmeted head that poked through the hole was that of Henry 
DeMontfort. Mary-Ann felt as she might just break out laughing. 


“Mary-Ann.” He nodded politely before retracting his head. More 
creaking, more crunching, and DeMontfort had torn the hole big 
enough for someone to step through. 


Salah stepped through the hole. 
“Mary-Ann!” 


He cleared the space between the hole and Mary-Ann in an instant, 
and dropped to his knees next to his wife. There were tears welling 
up in his eyes. 


He made a rescue mission. 


“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did...oh God help us...” He took in 


Naomi’s current condition, horror creeping over his face. 
“She’s alive,” Mary-Ann said. “But she needs help, fast.” 
“Right. Henry, could we use the Matilda to stabilize her?” 
“The cat we tested with it came out fine, so-” 


“We'll use it.” Salah unslung the beaten old traveling bag of Mary 
Mackillop off his shoulder and opened the mouth as wide as it would 
go. Mary-Ann handed him Naomi. He gingerly placed her in the 
sack, and drew the drawstrings tight. There she would remain in 
stasis until removed. 


Mary-Ann stood up, stretching her arms. Everything was clear now. 
The future unfolded in front of her. She knew what had to happen, 
knew what she had to do. The power was drawing closer, with each 
rumble of the earth and cloud of smoke. Coward that it was, it was a 
powerful coward, and she had threatened its work. 


Salah was next to her, the bag once again over his shoulder. 
“Henry how are we looking?” 


“Maybe a minute and a half until they get past what we did to the 
elevator,” DeMontfort said from the other side of the blast door. 
Salah put his arm around Mary-Ann. 


“Let’s go.” 
Mary-Ann smiled, shook her head, and moved Salah’s arm away. 
“You two get Naomi somewhere safe. I'll finish things here.” 


“What?” Salah’s face switched from relief to dumbfoundedness in an 
instant. “Mary-Ann, I’m not going to leave you behind, we can get 
you out of here.” 


“It’s not that. Do you want to know where those burns came from? 
She’s burnt because | put her in that furnace. Right over there. 
There is a power behind that statue, and it lied and connived and 
misled me until | was willing to burn her alive. I’m going to kill it." 


Dumbfoundedness turned to horror. 
“Mary-Ann...” 
“Go. I'll catch up to you. Just trust me. I'll be okay.” 


Salah said nothing. Mary-Ann wasn’t surprised by this. She could 
see it in his eyes behind all the horror and relief and rage and care, 
that he understood. She wrapped him in a hug and kissed him. 


“When you get home, | want to you go to my dresser and look at the 
bottom of my sock drawer,” she said. “There’s something there for 
you.” 


“All right.” 
“| love you.” 
“Love you too.” 


“Yoink.” Mary-Ann swiped a long obsidian knife from Salah’s belt. 
“'ll just be borrowing this. You guys get out of here.” 


“Right.” Salah hesitated a moment before ducking out of the hole. 


Their footsteps were swallowed up by the rumbling. Mary-Ann 
calmly walked towards the statue, now cloaked in its cloud of 
smoke, hefting the knife in her hand. The blade was incredibly 
sharp, and she didn’t believe that it was much more than that. A very 
sharp knife was all she needed. 


Salah couldn't believe what he had just done. After all he had done 
to rescue Mary-Ann, he was willingly leaving her behind. His rage 
was gone. It was not that he believed that she would win, no. He 
knew that she would. It was a certainty, as certain as if the sun 
would rise tomorrow. 


One final push to freedom, then. The last surviving inkbloods and 
guards had regrouped themselves, and Salah found he was not 
troubled by the bullets and slashes of black that once again filled the 


air. Those were only a hiccup on the way home. 


The smoke, now a sizeable mass, coalesced into a column, swirling 
and thundering about. The tremors were almost constant now, 
humming in the deep. 


Mary-Ann tossed the knife from one hand to the other. The coward 
was revealing itself, and she had no fear of it. She was ready for it. 
Her pain had melted away, replaced with strength. empowered by all 
those who came before her, all those mothers and children crying 
out for vengeance, for justice. 


The column collapsed into a compact blob of black. There was a 
single, final tremor, and the statue exploded, spraying the chamber 
with molten bronze and shards of clay. The smoke melted away into 
nothingness. 


Standing where the smoke had been was something like a man, ten 
feet tall and hairy with the head of a bull, curled horns, and tattered 
crow’s wings. A misshapen crown of tarnished bronze rested on top 
of its head. It stank of clay and coals and old stale sweat. Spittle and 
foam dribbled down to the floor, steaming. 


It lumbered forward, footfalls like lead, and stopped a few feet in 
front of Mary-Ann. It stooped low in a mockery of a bow. 


“Hail the little whore of Babylon, hail!” It raised its head, its lips 
twisted into a crude facsimile of a smile. Mary-Ann locked her eyes 
with the thing’s twin coals. There was no fear in her eyes, no fear on 
her face. 


“You are brave, and you are a fool, whore.” It rumbled in a voice that 
shifted continents. “You challenge Moloch the mighty with your little 
rebellion. Ab-Leshal, the First Sword of Daevon himself could not 
even defeat me, and you will attempt with nothing more than a 
cooking knife? Foolishness on top of foolishness. | have called your 
name, Mary-Ann Lewitt, and you are mine.” 


Mary-Ann continued to say nothing. 


“A pity your tongue is gone, whore.” 
Still nothing. 


“Your silence grows tiresome, whore. Speak. Make your pleas. Cry 
out to your impotent sky-god to deliver you. Beg for my mercy. 
Whatever you wish. Your silence is dull.” 


Mary-Ann smashed her head into Moloch’s face. 


The wreckage of the car and the exit were in sight, as were the 
bulky, shadowy forms that were waiting outside, backlit by the 
floodlights mounted on their SUVs. 


“Shit!” DeMontfort spat. He grabbed a piece of metal from the car 
and held it like a shield in front of him while Salah ducked behind a 
pile of rubble. 


Keep them safe. 
“Montag, where are you?” 


There, a little spark nearby. Leap, roll, grab the tacky little ornament, 
throw it to Salah. 


“Montag, get them out of here!” 


Salah felt himself surrounded in a whirlwind of fire and eyes as the 
ground fell away underneath him and he flew away into the night. 
For a moment, he glimpsed DeMontfort charging through the agents 
and their line of vehicles before darkness enveloped him. 


Whether the moment’s recoiling was the result of surprise or pain, it 
was an opportunity thrown wide open. Duck down, forward, move 
up, single swing to the testicles, pivot to the side. Moloch howled in 
pain as steaming blood splashed on the concrete floor. It smelled 
like sulfur and iron. 


Stars burst inside her head. A fist smashing down on her. Bones 
snapping. Thick, leathery fingers grabbed her hair, pulling her up 
from the floor, her scalp tearing and bleeding. She screamed, but 
the sound was cut off the furnace blast of the god’s bellow. Her skin 
peeled and blistered from the heat. She swung the knife, the blade 
glanced off of the thick skin. Moloch tossed her aside like a broken, 
bleeding rag doll. 


Mary-Ann’s body rolled to a limp rest, and was still. The god snorted 
and lumbered over to her prone form, ready to finish its work. It 
grabbed her body, raised her to its mouth. 


The knife lashed out, burying itself deep in Moloch’s eye. It 
bellowed, and the knife drew back and stabbed again: face, neck, 
eyes, snout. Blood poured from Moloch’s face as it dropped Mary- 
Ann to the floor. Air rushed out of her lungs along with the crack of 
ribs. 


“Death would be too good for you, whore,” Moloch boomed. “All 
break eventually under the weight of their own shame. Do you not 
remember your nights with your legs spread wide, moaning and 
crying as they fucked you and tossed you aside? You were never 
more than a passing pleasure, a slut to bed because they had 
become bored with their right hands.” Moloch’s face was right next 
to Mary-Ann’s head, his furnace breath enveloping her with its burnt- 
flesh scent. “You think he cares for you? He is nothing more than a 
lonely and desperate man. He took in a worthless piece of shit like 
you because he couldn't catch a better woman. So he settled for 
you. A monster and a slut. Nothing more.” Moloch sat down next to 
her, legs crossed. “My most pitiful servant.” 


There was movement. Mary-Ann pushed herself up, rising slowly... 
slowly...slowly... to her feet. There was nothing but pain now. Raw, 
red, searing pain. Her left arm hung limp, the shoulder crushed and 
useless from the impact. Her clothes were torn and soaked crimson. 
One eye was swollen shut, the other half-blinded by the blood that 
ran down from her torn scalp. Hair was matted and clumped with 
crimson. Ribs crushed. Fractures everywhere. Pain everywhere. 
Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. 


She was smiling. 


“F-f-fuck you.” With a last burst of strength, she reached out and tore 
the knife from Moloch’s eye. Millennia of mothers and fathers and 
children cheered, screamed for the Horned King’s blood. 


“Fuck you.” The knife plunged into Moloch’s other eye. 
“Fuck you.” Moloch’s throat. 


“Fuck you!” Mary-Ann threw herself against Moloch’s chest, and the 
bleeding god toppled onto its back. 


“Fuck you!” Again in the chest. “Fuck you!” Again and again, 
emphasizing each shout with another stab of the knife. "Fuck you! 
Fuck you! Hahahaha! Fuck! You! Fuck! You! Fuck! You! You picked 
the wrong mom to fuck with, motherfucker!” 


The burst of strength ended. The end was here. Mary-Ann could feel 
it, approaching like an old, long-awaited friend walking down the 
street. 


“Heh...eh-heh-heh...you...can...” Blood dribbled over her lips with 
her raspy, mumbling breaths. “Run...but sooner or...or later...” 


She tore the knife out of Moloch’s chest one last time. 
“God'll...cut you down.” 


Mary-Ann swung the knife back down, down deep into Moloch’s 
forehead. The Horned King shuddered, and its last breath rattled out 
of its lungs. She pushed herself off the body, took a few wobbling 
steps away from the corpse, and fell to her knees. She stared off 
into space for a moment. Her lips moved with the beginning of some 
silent word. 


Mary-Ann Lewitt fell to the blood-stained concrete floor and died. 


« Empire of Dirt (Part 2) | Hub | The Settling Ash » 


The Settling Ash 


In light of the containment breach at Site-36 early this 
morning, it has been decided by this administrative 
committee the Horizon Initiative has acted in violation to 
the terms of the Non-Interference Operations Pact. As 
such, the Foundation has withdrawn from this pact, 
though it recognizes that the breach was the result of 
rogue agents within the Horizon Initiative. Further 
investigation of SCP-089 and its purported influence 
upon Foundation personnel is ongoing. 


This committee has also seen it fit to award Mary-Ann 
Lewitt an honorary Foundation Star for her part in 
neutralizing SCP-089. In addition, the body of Ms. Lewitt 
has been returned to the Horizon Initiative, as a sign of 
goodwill to relieve tensions during dissolution of the Non- 
Interference Operations Pact. 


- Overseer 04 


The main drawback of Samson’s braid, DeMontfort determined, was 
that when it was removed, all the damage sustained during its use, 
and all the pain that went with it, came back at once. 


Five fractures, a broken leg, two bullet wounds, internal bleeding. 
For a man of his age and condition, it was something of a miracle 
that he survived it. He was quite certain he’d be better off dead. 


The justice had been swift this time around. Relics taken back, 
Malleus dissolved completely, his position stripped from him 
permanently, his future a certain reassignment to some backwater 
research project or monotonous desk job somewhere where he 
could cause no trouble and work off his penance for a decade or so. 
Either that, and he shuddered to consider this alternative, or they 


would send him back to parish work. 


Ugh. Might as well drown out the pain and boredom and survivor's 
guilt with that mightiest of man’s creations, television. 


He pressed the remote on the arm of his hospital bed. The TV on 
the wall flicked on, to reveal Dora the Explorer going about her pitiful 
purgatorial existence. Thankfully, it was muted. 


Hey. Fuckface. 


DeMontfort blinked. Yes, those subtitles said exactly that. He 
reached for his bedside table. Napkin...pen...there. 


Hello, Deer. DeMontfort wrote on the napkin. 


About time you got in touch. Goddamn, son. That was impressive 
shit. Nearly brought a tear to my eye. 


You? Caring about things? Perish the thought. 


| gotta care, ‘cause if | don’t, I’m just going to be bored. You fucked 
shit up, and | respect that. Not as much as Top Mom McLiftsalot, but 
hey, you do what you can do. 


That’s the closest I’ve heard to a compliment out of you. 


Guess you're on your way out, eh? Good for ya. You’re well overdue 
for an ass-stick-oscopy. 


It’s a pity | promised not to hunt you down anymore.