The known translated transcript of SCP-861's song, as 
well as the songs produced by SCP-861- and SCP-861- 
have been transferred to DOCUMENT- -861 
(CLEARANCE 5/861 REQUIRED). 


Footnotes 

1. Subjects exposed to the song in this state will still demonstrate 
comprehension based on previously stated factors. 

2. Extensive analysis has determined a connection between this 
voice andEmma ___ ,aD-Class personnel subjected to a Choir 
Event 27 hours previously. Said event was the most destructive on 
record, producing _ fatalities. 


« SCP-860 | SCP-861 | SCP-862 » 


feet and and shifting her weight so that it was harder for her to fall 
down. 


Hendricks backed away, and began following her. "Still, it'll be 
fascinating to dissect him. The transformation was stopped so 
suddenly that it didn't have time to switch back to a human upon 
death." 


Dr. Bering's eyebrows met her hairline. "You know, Jason, it baffles 
me how you're terrified of insects, yet can stomach the thought of 
dissecting a werewolf." 


"Werewolves can't crawl up your nose and suck out your brain." 


Virginia thought about this statement, trying to think of a rebuttal, 
before deciding, "I... can't argue with that." 


Within five minutes, Foundation containment forces had arrived with 
an industrial tow truck and ice breakers. Among them was one 
Agent Nicholas Ewell, who was wearing a Santa hat underneath his 
helmet, which was emblazoned with 210— The Sloths' Arm. The 
cuff of the hat was visible, and drew odd looks from both Hendricks 
and Bering. "What?" he asked. "Can't | have a bit of the holiday 
spirit, too?" 


"Just wondering why you're wearing it under the helmet," Bering 
said. "Anyway. Think you can handle this? We still have to finish our 
rounds. Who's next, Hendricks?" 


"Uh..." he looked at the document. "Jacob Loman. 20 Elm Street, 
Class-2. After that, there's six more." 


"Huh," Virginia said as the crews started pulling the truck out of the 
ditch; she saw that there was a lot of blood coming from the cabin, 
and a long, hairy arm was hanging out of it. "Hell of a way to go." 


"We'll put it through processing and have it in one of your labs by 
tonight, Dr. Bering." Ewell rolled his shoulders. "You doing anything 
for Christmas?" 


"I'm probably going to be out of town visiting my niece," Bering 
replied. "Assuming nothing comes up, I'll be out of here in the 


morning." 


"I'll be doing the usual myself," Ewell said. "Doing the whole 
Christmas Party thing, trying to make sure the site doesn't turn into a 
shit-show like last year; we're still finding mistletoe and myrrh in the 
air ducts. Pear Tree won't stop giving us grief about it." 


"Are we still going to call poor Dr. Partridge that? It's been a year, for 
god's sake, and the man's sick." Hendricks crossed his arms. "He's 
still going to the infirmary because he pisses pear juice." 


"Sorry," Ewell mumbled, holding up his hands. "It's just become 
automatic. Though, people don't call you Flyswatter anymore..." 


Hendricks glowered at him, and stomped back to the sedan. 
Ewell turned to look at Dr. Bering. "Still a sore spot?" 


"Some anonymous asshole gave him a giant can of RAID for his 
birthday. So, yeah." She pursed her lips and made her way back to 
the car. 


5:30 PM 


"That's all of them accounted for, finally," Hendricks said, eye 
twitching as he closed the list. "...Dr. Bering? Are Class-1s usually 
that... friendly... when they've shifted?" 


"| don't know, and | don't want to know," she said, brushing fur off of 
her lap. "Why anyone would want to voluntarily become a werewolf, 
| don't know." 


"Maybe you should ask Dr. Sinclair," Hendricks said as the car 
chugged in the cold weather against Virginia's attempts to start it. 
"She has a few books on the subject." 


"What, dusty old spell books?" 


"Licked by the Lupine Lover by Bram Stroker. Not Stoker. Stroker. 
She has it on the shelf in her office and keeps forgetting to hide it 
when people come in." 


"...| wish that this site had easily-accessible amnestics," Dr. Bering 
gagged as she started up the car and headed towards the main S & 
C Plastics compound. 


For all the world, S & C Plastics looked like a generic industrial 
building, four stories of brown stone and pragmatic corners, no 
embellishments of any kind. It had a light-up sign on the front in 
block format, with some generic slogan underneath that seemed to 
change every month; this month, it said "Leading the World in 
Plastic Technologies". They pulled into the main parking lot out 
front, and headed into the building, scanning their RFID badges as 
they entered. 


At the front, the receptionist looked up at them. "Dr. Bering, there's a 
message for you from Agent Ewell." 


"What is it?" 


The receptionist held up a card and said, in a bland voice, "Where 
the hell are you, I've been trying to reach your phone for half an 
hour, the fucking body in the truck is gone, it looks like it walked 
away, Call me." 


Virginia's heart dropped to her feet, and she looked at Hendricks, 
before dashing towards the elevator. He followed suit. "The body's 
gone?" he asked, slamming the button for processing. "Walked 
away? Please tell me we're not dealing with a Zombie Werewolf 
Santa..." 


"We're dealing with a Class-5." 
"Thank god," Hendricks said. "Zombie Santa is bad enough." 


"Hendricks, Class-5 is bad. It recovered from a steering column to 
the chest! Anything it touches could have a lycanthropic infection 
attached to it. This site needs to be locked down. Hazmat 
procedures need to be put into place. This entire site needs to be 
scoured with nutmeg—" 


"Wait, nutmeg? Are you serious?" Hendricks frowned. 


"Nutmeg is highly neurotoxic to canines, and it can neutralize 


secondary lycanthropy infection without damaging the human cells. 
It's not perfect, but it being the holidays, we have a lot on hand." 


The elevator opened onto the processing level, and they were met 
with a somewhat gruesome sight. Researchers all over were 
collapsed, vomiting, scratching at their heads, mumbling and 
growling out of hunger. "Uh-oh." 


"Where's the break room?" Virginia said. 


"Um... two lefts and a right," Hendricks said, running past those who 
had collapsed. "Seriously though, nutmeg?" 


"Oh shut up!" She said, running with him. They made it into the 
room, where they found an unfortunately familiar face collapsed over 
the sink, vomiting. The short, red hair and scarred forearms of 
Katherine Sinclair were visible leaning over the countertop, retching. 
"...holy shit this is bad." 


"Sinclair," Bering said. "Listen to me. Where's the eggnog?" 


She looked up at the doctor, her irises turning a slight yellow. "... 
egg...nog? ...fridge? Second sh..." She retched into the sink again. 
"God, what the fuck's happening, Virginia?" 


"You've been infected by a lycanthropic pathogen. If we act now, the 
nutmeg seasoning should cure it." 


"Here," Hendricks said, diving out from the fridge. "Just take it 
straight from the carton." 


Sinclair leaned on the countertop and had the eggnog poured into 
her mouth; as soon as it hit her stomach, the condition began to 
clear up, and she gasped, wiping her lips. "...right, nutmeg. Thanks, 
Bering, Hendricks." 


"There's not enough cartons in here for the whole floor," Hendricks 
said. "Shit." 


"There's some nutmeg in my lab on sublevel 5. It's behind— you 
know what, I'll just get it." She ran out of the breakroom, dodging the 
various ailed co-workers around her. 


"Kind of a pity," Hendricks said. "Some of them would make 
amazing test cases." 


".,.and you wouldn't mind seeing Dr. Mattings grievously injured." 
"Do you blame me? The guy's a cunt." 


"Not important. Right now, we have to figure out where Kramer is 
going, and how the fuck we're going to stop him before he changes." 


Hendricks tapped his skull, eyes going wide. "Uh-oh." 
"What?" 


"...It's Christmas Eve. This guy moonlights as a Santa. Christ's sake, 
he had his costume on." 


"He wouldn't put himself in a place where he would be a danger to 
others, though. Werewolves aren't inherently evil." 


"All right, you're an actual, medical doctor. Tell me, even with the 
regenerative capabilities of that thing, what would the effects of a 
crash like that be?" 


"Um..." Virginia walked around, gesticulating, wracking her brain. 
"He'd heal pretty quickly from any damage to the core, once any 
obstructions were removed... extremities might take a bit longer. 
Normally, a crash of that severity can lead to major concussions, 
resulting in memory loss, disorientation, brain swelling, and all sorts 
of other nastiness. A being with regenerative capabilities analogous 
to that of a Class-5 Lycanthrope can usually recover from brain 
damage of that severity within 24 hours, assuming blood could 
properly flow." 


"And I'd say a steering column through the torso would inhibit that 
pretty badly." Hendricks looked up as the smell of nutmeg began to 
flow through the air ducts; Sinclair must have started distributing it. 
Already, the moaning from the hall was beginning to lessen. "Best 
case scenario, he's wandering around out there, completely 
disoriented, spreading his werewolf funk from any open wounds he 
might still have." 


"Hell, you're right. Get Ewell, Pryce, February... anyone you can find 
from the task force and tell them to meet us out front, bring silver, 
and nutmeg. A lot of nutmeg. | hate having to do this, but worst 
comes to worst..." 


"We're gonna have to kill him," Hendricks nodded. "I've got a bit of 
colloidal silver in my lab | can grab." 


"Do it," Virginia said, starting for the elevator. On the way, they 
passed Dr. Sinclair. "Nice work with the nutmeg, Kat, we owe you!" 


Katherine Sinclair just stood there, mystified; she had come down to 
tell them that she couldn't find the nutmeg, and not only was she 
being thanked for it, but the entire level smelled strongly of it. 


The first reaction she had as she saw Dr. Bering and Dr. Hendricks 
enter the elevator was "Uh-oh." 


7:35 PM 


"The sun set an hour ago," Ewell cursed as he drove the armored 
jeep along. "Christ, the moon's gonna come up soon, and we don't 
know where the fuck he is." 


"Well, we better find him soon," grumbled Seren Pryce, checking her 
rifle for the tenth time since they had started. "Or else bad shit's 
gonna happen. It might almost be as bad as '08!" 


"Nothing is as bad as '08," Raymond February snapped. "Are you 
sure there's no way to track him?" 


"Our best hope, right now, is find it and pray," Bering said, looking at 
her own snubnosed pistol, loaded with silver slugs. "Besides, the 
moon won't fully rise until around 11:00. We're fine." 


"| just hope we can take him out with minimal casualties," Raymond 
muttered, checking the sights on his rifle. 


Seren just snorted and covered her mouth. "Foundation' and 
‘minimal casualties' are never used in the same sentence. What 
about you, Bug Zapper?" She gave a shit-eating grin at Hendricks. 


"Anything on the scanner?" 


Hendricks drilled holes in Pryce's armor with his glare, and turned to 
the police scanner app he had on his phone. "The usual; Christmas 
party got too out of control, ectoplasm being found in the school 
bathroom, another sighting or two of the Goatman—" 


"What the hell's he doin'? Seren asked. "| thought Halloween was 
more his gig." 


"...apparently going into the Black Garden to buy mead. Go figure." 
He looked at the walls, instinctively, expecting a window to be there. 
The scanner squawked, and he turned his attention back to it. "Wait, 
hold on, quiet." 


«Units in the area of Gore Road, we, uh, we got reports of a man, 
mid 30s, walking around the vicinity. Subject is wearing a Santa 
Claus costume and is covered in blood, can someone confirm?» 


"Hear that, Agent? Gore Road." 


"I'm on it." Ewell turned on his sirens and gunned it down the streets 
of Sloth's Pit, barely missing a troupe of carolers. Not that anybody 
would have minded him hitting them. 


Ewell nodded and looked out the driver's window as he turned onto 
Gore street. "Dammit, he's not here!" 


"...any Christmas parties about?" Hendricks asked. 


"Wh... yeah, there is. Wait, shit, | see him going in!" He slammed 
the car to a stop. "Gahfuckingdammit he's going to contaminate the 
whole place!" 


"Move!" February said, readying his rifle. Pryce made her way 
across the street, where she sent up grapple onto the balcony of 
some unassuming two-story ranch house. She laid atop, waiting for 
the shot to be taken, if need be. 


"...my god are you bleeding?" 


That was never a good thing to hear from the inside of a Christmas 


party. Ewell, February, and the two doctors made their way to the 
front door, where they saw lan Kramer, his chest and mouth covered 
in blood, his Santa outfit a complete mess, converse with a woman 
in her sixties, who they guess was the homeowner. 


"N...no," lan said. "It's just peppermint." 


"You're covered in blood! Jesus Christ, lan!" She backed away and 
threw up her hands. "| asked you to be a Santa and you come back 
with blood all over you. God dammit! |..." She coughed, clutching 
her throat. "I just want to have a normal, nice..." she coughed again, 
black powder emanating from her throat. "Christmas party for my 
grand..." She collapsed, twitching. 


"Huh," he said, blankly. "Guess that means | can go 
TLTTTVVUEITTTTTM In.” This was the approximate noise he made 
after February had snuck up behind him and applied a taser to his 
back. He caught him, and took a sip of a flask of eggnog to prevent 
infection. 


Hendricks, for his part, placed a solution of water and nutmeg into 
the woman's mouth and tilted her head back; it had been February's 
idea, in case of egg allergies. As Pryce had put it: "Saving the town 
from goddamn werewolves and you're worried about the people 
dying from allergic reactions. Jesus Christ." 


"Right," Ewell said, helping February lift him to a trailer behind the 
task force van, fitted for Hazmat containment. "Now, let's plunk his 
ass in containment, make sure we don't catch the wurrwulf, and 
exchange gifts.” 


"I'll call in that we're coming back," Hendricks said, climbing into the 
front seat. "Squad 25 en route back to site, we have a hazardous 
individual in need of containment, can you confirm, over?" Silence. 
"87, this is Sigma-10 squad 25, we have a dangerous anomalous 
individual inbound, can you read? Over." More silence. "...that's not 
a good sign." 


"Maybe they stepped out to mingle?" Virginia's tone was of genuine 
hope. 


"...| don't think so, guys," Pryce said over her ear piece. "For one... 
ever play Silent Hill?" 


"Nope." 

"Nu-uh." 

"Can't say | have." 

"Two was the best," February affirmed. "Why?" 


"Because there's this huge bank of fog on the hill where HQ is. | 
can't see anything through it. And... | can't tell, but | think it's red and 
green." 


"Well," sighed Bering. "That's just wonderful. You know, you think 
this town would outlaw a// holidays at this point, not just the 4th of 
July." 


"Uncle Sam never stole the souls of those who didn't fly American 
Flags on Easter. Lady Liberty never trampled the apple orchard on 
Valentine's day. And George Washington never rode into town on a 
horse made of crystal looking to eat the brains of his opponents on 
Halloween." Ewell sighed and looked at Kramer as he was hauled 
into the Hazmat trailer. "...now what?" 


Pryce had, by this point, descended from her perch. "...we take the 
van, go to the Black Garden, and wait for all this to blow over?" 


"Wh-" Hendricks said. "With an unattended containment unit? Are 
you mad?!" 


"| don't think we should get drunk on a job, either..." February 
pointed out.