depicts an engorged human head approximately twenty times larger 
than normal pressing itself out of the hole with no discernible body. 
Video and radio contact were lost as seismic forces increased to 
seven on the scale for two seconds duration then abruptly ceased. 
Further aerial surveillance of the Site A hole and area depict zero 
activity and no traces of the research teams or their ever having 
been there. All personnel and equipment are considered lost. 


Proceed to next document, SCP-610-L4 


even running on the path anymore: he ran straight through the 
woods, dodging obstacles with the grace of a deer. Actually, it would 
be inaccurate to say that he even ran. He flew. His feat barely 
touched the ground before he took another leaping stride forward. 
His scarf waved behind him like a tail. The way he ran, Mark could 
imagine him laughing. 


Mark’s amazement at this was numbed by the overwhelming 
sensory maelstrom his speed had achieved. There was no noise but 
the wind in his ears, no taste or smell but the chill air in his mouth 
and nose, no sight other than a stripe of grey in a sea of green, 
nothing to touch but the handlebars. 


Then, the shelter appeared up ahead on the side of the path. The 
finish line. Mark looked off into the woods. There was no sign of the 
young man. He must have left him behind. Redirecting his gaze 
towards the shelter, he gasped and hit the brakes, hard. He 
screeched to a halt in front of the old wooden storm shelter, twin 
streaks of rubber burned into the path behind him, and the young 
man standing in front of him. 


“Nice effort there,” he said, not the least bit winded. Mark on the 
other hand, could not reply due to his shortness of breath. “I almost 
thought you were a lost cause at the beginning, but you pulled 
through for the finish. Best race I’ve had in a long while.” 


“H-how...how did you...do that?” Mark panted. 


“| really don’t know what you're talking about. But anyway, here’s 
your prize.” 


“What prize?” 


“Your consolation prize, of course!” The young man almost sounded 
insulted. “I can’t let effort like that go unrewarded. So much better 
than the others.” 


Mark’s vision began to warp. The forest seemed to grow darker, 
unreal. The young man seemed to loom larger, and more 
mysterious. Shadows and shapes that should not have been there 
appeared in the forest. Bodies. Dozens of them. Bodies impaled on 


saplings, bodies with heads smashed in by rocks, bodies torn open 
by some ungodly force, bodies hanging by their own entrails from 
the branches of trees. A row of bloody bicycle helmets were perched 
on a fence of sharpened sticks. They were there, and they were not, 
shifting between the real, the imagined, and the forgotten. 


“Here’s your prize, a word from the wise,” the young man said, ina 
voice textured the way no man’s was. “The one who does not give 
his all receives nothing but his grave.” 


The Runner walked into the shelter and was gone. 


The Tailor 


They don’t understand, darling. They can’t. They’re clouded, blinded 
by unrecognized jealousy and rage born from fear of what they do 
not know. 


We'll be safe here my, sweet. They won't find us. They’ll never think 
to check and see if | doubled back. They’re too separated, too 
clouded by the layers between them and reality. If they could think 
like you do... Such pure cognition, each thought flitting from scrap to 
scrap. | can almost feel them pausing along your vertebrae before 
continuing on... If they were as free as you, they’d find me. They’d 
deserve to. 


Hush dear. Here, let me hold you. | know you don’t like the damp. It 
eats at you my dear, and it'll be harder to repair you now that we're 
on the run. A few stray drips and you'll mildew, and we mustn't have 
that. What’s that? A moth? I'll strike it down for you. I'll be a knight in 
shining robes, billowing in the wind, protecting you from harm. That 
little dusty dragon won't touch you darling. And | know you hate 
mothballs, and while I’m around, you shall have no need of them. 


Here, let me get the light. | just want to look at you for a while. I'll 
never get tired of you, pet. Your beauty, your grace... The way the 
light shimmers through your ribs, catching on pale resplendence of 
your breastbone. Hmm? | know, angel. You always felt that nylon 
looked cheap. | could see it in your frown when your mother brought 
you to the store. But we were out of time, and it worked so fast. You 
were all put together, quick as love. Well, before they could interrupt. 
And you're so slim now! Free of all that confinement, open to the 
world as you should be. 


A moment dear, | need to listen. Yes, yes, they are circling back. It 
appears | was mistaken about their powers of deduction. What an 
example | must be making for you... Though they seem to be 
providing a study in overreaction. Really, it’s like they think | did 
something wrong! You may not have been quite at the age of 


consent, but you were so sure of yourself. I’m certain if they’d give 
me the chance to explain, to speak with you, they’d be able to see 
reason. 


I’m afraid we must go now, love. But don’t worry. I'll tuck you into the 
backseat. With any luck, they'll think you're napping. 


We'll be fine, pet. Nothing can stop love. And you love me don’t 
you? Of course you do. 


The Taste of Leaves 


| did knock. 
| don’t know why. 


There was no reply so | slid the key into the lock and pushed the 
door open. | could hear my heart in my ears. 


“End of life plans.” It rang in my head. Closing your Facebook, 
absent from work, posting me some of your jewellery... It was all 
summed up in one horrible phrase. 


She couldn't see me. | sat, perched on the windowsill, crouched. My 
body felt electric, humming, broken at the edges. What was |? A 
ghost? A ghoul? Alive, or dead? Why couldn't | remember what | 
had done? 


You weren't in your small room. The bed was made. The bedroom 
was Clean. 


The animals were dead. 


| didn’t do it. | didn’t do it. | couldn’t have done that. | wouldn’t have 
done that. | loved my guinea pigs. Maybe more than I loved myself. | 
stared at my trembling hands, saw that they seemed to be made of 
static. A broken TV. | hugged the duvet closer, though it offered me 
no warmth. My mum was judging me. She was so silent, staring 
down at them. My furbabies. 


Salt and Pepper lay in their cage, a plastic sandwich bag neatly 
engulfing each of their heads. The food bowl and water bottle were 
full, which struck me as odd. The guinea pigs lay together on a pile 
of hay. When | touched them, the cold and stiffness chilled me. My 
next thought chilled me even more. 


“l would have rather found her.” 


| wonder where | am. My physical me; if my body is somewhere. 
What did | do to myself? In this static form, my scars had 
disappeared. The white lines scanning along my arms were just not 
there. When I touched myself, my hand went through arm. | wasn’t 
breathing, either. | was gone. In some form, | was gone. Would 
someone find me? Did | do this to myself? 


| had prepared myself for that. | imagined my grief at seeing you 
hanging like a puppet on a string. | could see you lying in your bed, 
white foam on your lips, and the pill bottle in your pale, dead hand. | 
could prepare myself for that — for a death, then the funeral. | did 
that with dad; | did that with mum. 


But seeing your animals dead sickened me more. It somehow felt 
more final, more distant. 


More like an ‘end of life plan’. 


My mum had already been through so much grief. Crawling off the 
windowsill, duvet around me, | went to stand at her side. She really 
couldn't see me. She tensed, like maybe she felt me, but | realised 
from the look on her pale face that the dead animals disgusted her. | 
couldn’t have done this. | loved them. | loved my mum. This wasn't 
me. 


| turned away, feeling sick. You weren’t capable of this. You loved 
animals. | remember you rescuing baby birds, keeping them in shoe 
boxes, feeding them with pipettes. Not letting them die. You willingly 
killing your pets was alien to me. 


Turning away from the ghastly scene, | nearly tripped over the 
rubbish bin in my haste to escape. It forced my eyes to it, but | smelt 
before | saw. Metallic; my mouth tasted like pennies. Then | saw the 
blood, stagnating at the bottom of the bin, drizzling down the sides, 
dark brown by now. 


| never liked blood and instantly the room span. But | grit my teeth 
and steeled myself. | lowered down to the bin. There was a flash of 
metal amongst the blood — a knife. Then skin. Layers and layers of 
skin. Flashes of colour; ink. Tattoos. 


Your tattoos. 


| followed my mum. | prayed she would see me. | wasn't invisible — 
not to myself, anyway. | was static, and the duvet around me was 
blue, dark blue, stained dark red in patches. Did | die in this? That 
was it. | was wrapped up somewhere in a forest. | remembered the 
taste of leaves in my mouth. As mum stared at my removed tattoos, 
| did too. | would never do that. | hated my body, but | loved my 
tattoos — the scars | chose on my body. Wildly different from the 
ones inflicted on me. | would never take them off. Such a thought 
never occurred to me. 


My mind tried to piece it all together. There was enough blood for 
problems, but maybe not enough to die. You had carved your skin 
like the flesh of a pumpkin. Cut off your tattoos — cut off what could 
be used to identify you. 


The thought was overwhelming. You, sitting on the bed, the bin in 
front of you, the kitchen knife slicing into vulnerable inked flesh. 


| didn’t do it! | wanted to scream at her. She was making a mistake! | 
could see in her eyes, on her face. Tense lips. Grey skin. Imagining 
it. She thought because | could take a folding knife and make fine 
lines on my arms, that | could plunge it deep into my skin. | didn’t do 
it. | didn’t want to die. The taste of leaves was overwhelming; 
autumnal and brown and paintul. | died in this duvet, | knew it now. | 
was hidden somewhere. | just needed to be found. 


Why? Why would you do this to us? Scattering yourself like clues, 
maybe clues to your death. Maybe clues to where you are. 


My daughter is missing. 
My daughter is not dead. 


Please find me, mum. 


The Woven Man 


Once upon a time, there was a tailor of well-repute, who resided in a 
cottage some distance from the town square. He was known to be 
the best at his art, and his fingers moved like rippling water, 
manipulating even the finest of fibre and thread into intricate lines of 
motion that, so the story goes, could bring tapestry to life. Now, we 
know little truth in that fact. But the thing everyone agrees on is that 
one day, the tailor sighed. 


For he had grown old over the years, and his hands were no longer 
the systematic swift swirling of small ripples, but the choppy 
churning of deep lakes. As always, his finished products were 
magnificent in detail and his commissions rolled in, but there lacked 
the spark, the swift precision that was his hallmark and pride and joy 
in his early days. 


So the master tailor decided to search for an apprentice. Notices 
were put up, word was spread, and soon hopeful pupils by the 
coachload were hiking up the path to the master tailor's cottage, 
which was secluded so as to aid his concentration on his work. The 
tailor welcomed his candidates with open arms, and directed them 
each to a private room where they were shown a needle and as 
much as they required of the tailor's finest thread. Thinner than a 
horsehair and flimsier than rotten flax but shining silver which 
seemed to animate in the cold winter light. The task was to weave a 
single sheet of shimmering, moving silver, which could not be 
broken by human means. The tailor could accomplish this with ease, 
and even demonstrated it in front of the rapt students-to-be. 


Naturally, many forfeited after testing the thread, and though there 
were some who came close, with a twist and a snap, their hard work 
would come undone by the stern-faced tailor. You have failed, he 
would say for the hundredth time that day, and the candidate would 
sigh, pack up and go. 


Now this continued for a week, but among the many hopefuls, none 


were able to replicate what the tailor had taken years to learn and 
even longer to master. As he showed another dejected candidate 
through the door, he thought to himself. "| can weave shimmering 
dragons, flying through the moving tapestry sky; | can weave live 
fire-flies with their glowing dances onto impossible textures of coats. 
If | cannot find a man worthy enough to be my student, | shall weave 
one myself! For nothing knows the fine flow of needle and thread 
better than one made of needle and thread himself." 


The next day, the tailor locked his gate and blocked out his 
windows. Taking a bundle of fine white cotton, he began to weave. 
In and out, through holes impossible to find and even harder to 
thread, into three dimensions he constructed a matrix of interwoven 
thread, and with a final tuck completed a solid bone out of 
impossibly locked cotton. More and more he sewed, until a complete 
man's frame was formed. Then he bounded to the frame, by way of 
hooks and needles, countless numbers of springy red fibres, dyed 
with the blood of goats and bewitched by an old gypsy he once met 
in his earlier days. Slowly, the woven muscles twisted and snaked 
round one another until they stretched taut on the white cotton bone, 
and twitched with excited tension. But the tailor pressed his hand to 
the jumpy threads and said, "Lie still. It's not time yet." 


With thin catgut he sewed infinitesimal compartments, until the 
structure resembled a human lung, and he placed it in the open 
quivering ribcage. In several swift movements of his needle he 
connected dripping red thread to fleshy catgut and woven bone, and 
painfully but surely the muscles contracted. His creation took a 
shuddering, shallow first breath. 


For the veins and arteries he threaded numerous hollow yarns 
through the strands of interwoven red tendons, into linen bone and 
within breathing chest, and at the center of it all placed a little 
sewing-machine mechanism, driven by clockwork held fast with 
craftsman's glue and a live starpiece. Feeding silk through the heart, 
he wound up the pulsing starpiece, starting off the mechanism with a 
muted titter-tatter. Through the hollow veins life's silk coursed, 
bringing movement and vigour to the limbs. But there was yet no 
mind to control it, and the creation did not rise. 


Using a sheet of smooth pink silk, he stitched skin to muscle, 


covering the exposed rawness with a layer of thread so warm and 
smooth to the touch one could have mistaken it for a real person. 
With embellishments crafted from marble he slid fingernails into raw 
pulsing nailbeds, and teeth into dry gums. The hair was spun with 
the finest gold thread the tailor could afford, falling over clear glass 
eyes filled with bella-donna dew for sight. He left a small opening at 
the base of the skull, for he had not yet thought of how to weave a 
sentient soul. 


Finally, among his vaults of disused material he discovered a 
strange colourless spool of thread which somehow shimmered with 
light more than even his most delicate silver. It was fine, but 
somehow not too thin, and so strong that he needed a carving-knife 
to sever it, but felt in his hands and needle that in all his years of 
practice and self-training, this thread was spun for his talented 
fingers alone.