Left a voice mail for him, told him to send them back if he’s going to 
be a long time. | wouldn’t mind normally, just those were brand new! 
Last time he took something of mine, | got back pants just coated in 
dirt and blood from some jungle in the middle of nowhere. | had to 
throw them out, they stank so bad. 


Work was ok, slow as hell. Didn’t see Jim in the office today, 
apparently he’s been out sick. I’m so used to seeing him across the 
hall, the whole day felt off. His desk seemed really empty too...god | 
hope we're not downsizing. 


August 23rd, 


Came home today to a message from Greg. Says he doesn’t have 
my shoes, but he’s still unpacking. | have to wear my old pair that’s 
falling apart, so | was a little pissed. Left a message for him to just 
keep the damn things. | think I’m still worked up from work today, | 


shouldn’t take it out on him. 


| came in to work, all worried that someone would notice my feet, 
and | find the whole office buzzing. Apparently Jim’s house blew up. 
| mean it freaking EXPLODED, just a crater left. It was all over the 
news, happened some time last night | guess. Nobody knows what 
happened to Jim, he might have been inside. The cops are 
apparently pretty tight-lipped over it, but the word is Jim had a meth 
lab in his basement, and something went wrong. 


What the hell? Jim? a METH LAB?? He could barely make coffee 
right! Still...it’s not like | knew him all that well, just “that guy” at 
work...he has been acting really weird lately. God...you just never 
can tell, can you? They’re still looking into it, but most people think 
Jim was in the house. 


They already cleared off his desk, can you believe it? Can't even let 
the dust settle, and the corporate gears just keep turning. I’m going 
to bed, my feet hurt and I’m still just shocked 


August 24th, 


| found my damn shoes today. they were right in front of the door...| 
mean right where | always leave them. How the hell did | miss them 
for two days? What the hell? | called Greg and apologized for 
snapping on him. Haven't heard from him yet. | just don’t get how | 
didn’t see them right freaking there! 


They found Jim, or at least they think they did. He was apparently in 
the house when it blew. The funeral is tomorrow, | don’t know if I'll 
go. | didn’t really know him that well...still; | did work with him for 
years. | don’t know, | guess I’m still getting my head around all this. 
Everyone at work is really quiet, it feels strange. 


| spend all that time looking for my shoes, and now I’m having 
problems with them. They feel funny, too hard and they pinch a little. 
| bet it’s because I’ve been wearing my old blown-out pair, gotta get 
used to them again. | tore holes in my new socks, and my toes are 
kind of red...that’s all | need, some damn fungus. 


August 25th, 


This whole day has been weird. First, | couldn’t find a bunch of my 
shirts. | swear | hung up a bunch of them yesterday, but they’re all 
gone. | had to dig one out of the dirty clothes, and even that was 
weird. The first three | grabbed had holes all over them. If | have 
freaking moths or some kind of bug, I’m going to kill Greg. He’s done 
this before, brought home some kind of virus or critter by accident, 
and then we have to spend weeks getting rid of it. | can’t think of 
what | did with my shirts though, how the hell could they all just be 
gone? 


Ok, so then | manage to get out the door, and | realize its trash day. 
So | go out back, and the freaking trash can is crawling with these 
bugs! | mean just covered with them, tiny little things, kinda brown 
and really fast. | walked up to try and see them closer, and they all 
just ran off the trash and off into the grass. Looked kinda like mites 
or something...probably just some kind of ant or something I’ve 
never seen. Anyway, | go to take the trash down, and these little 
bugs have freaking eaten out the bottom of the trash can! Tore open 
all the bags too, so it just dumped everywhere. Had to shovel it all 
into a spare can. If | see those things again, I’m going to stomp 
them. 


Then, to top it off, | had a freaking bee sting me. At least | think it 
was a bee...| was at lunch, and suddenly | had this sharp pain on 
my ankle. | jumped up and started shouting, and it just kept hurting 
worse and worse. | ripped off my shoe because | thought it was 
trapped or something. My skin was so raw, even bleeding a little bit, 
and my sock had a big hole around the heel...and suddenly | realize 
everyone in the freaking restaurant is staring at me. | paid quick and 
got the hell out...1 feel like such an idiot. Hopefully tomorrow will be 
better...1 think | need to get out more, go relax. 


| didn’t go to Jim’s funeral. It was closed casket...apparently he was 
in bad shape. | think | need to request a leave...| just feel worn out. 
This whole day has been screwed up. 


August 26th, 


To hell with this, | am cracking the hell up, and | am going on 
vacation. The damn stools are missing from the kitchen, all my shirts 
are gone, and my shoes were in the sink this morning. Either | am 
sleep-redecorating, going insane, or someone is messing with me. 
Whichever it is, | am not dealing with this anymore. | called in, and | 
am leaving today. Going to a hotel by the lake, and just relax a few 
days. Greg is back tomorrow, and I’m letting him deal with this crap. 


| bought new shirts, pants, shoes, everything. Screw this place; see 
you when you're sane. 


[NOTE: Text in the following section is nearly illegible. Interpretation 
and editing done by Central Records. Original text can be viewed on 
request.] 

September 1st, 


WHAT THE HELL??! | think Greg is dead, oh god ooh go/illegiblejr 
them, | can still HEAR THEM!!! | came home today, and it was 
late/illegiblejdark out, and | came in. Every light was off, and | saw 
Greg on the couch over on the other side. He looked like he was 
sleeping, [illegiblejo. So | turned on the light, and the couch and 
Greg melted. | mean they just melted, like a pile of snow on the sun, 
and it was all these little bug things, and they just SURGED at me, 
like a wave, and stone silent the w/i/legiblejn and | hid, | hid in my 
room and | can’t get the hell out of here, and | hear them picking at 
the door, but they can’t get in. | have every light in here on, and it 
seems to keep them back. One slipped under the door and stared at 
me, and | screamed at it and it ran back. | can hear them in the 
walls, chewing and crawling everywhere. When [illegible] 


September 3rd, 


My name is Paul Martin, and | live at . [have been trapped in 
my bedroom for almost two days. Small...things have taken over 
everything else. They have been trying to get to me for this entire 
time. Light appears to scare them, and I’ve kept all the lights on. 
They have started to attack the wiring in the walls, and | think | the 
lights will go out very soon. | think they got Jim first, then came 
home with me from work. they seem to copy things, and then take 


over. They killed Greg, I’m sure of it. Nobody has been around... 
can’t even get people to look up from the street. I’m going the throw 
this out the window, and then | am making a run for it. | am not going 
to die here. 


Notes: Diary recovered from rubble of the Building. SCP-236 
contained and transported by Agents operating under FBI cover. 
“Meth Lab” story presented in explanation of the explosion. No 
human remains recovered from blast area. 


Name: Dr. Sato 

Date: 21/01/2018 

Total items: One copy of @@|@@@@@|@@|@'s report 
Input: One copy of @@|\@@@O@|O@@/@'s report 
Setting: 1:1 

Output: Nothing 


Note: Dr. Sato believes that rather than there having not 
been any output, but rather @@/@@@O@/O@/@ 
managed to retrieve it before any results could be 
examined. 


+ Show Test Logs, Part 6 


Name: Dr. Ochre 
Date: 01-25-2018 


Input: One junction field effect transistor 
Setting: 1:1 

Output: One miniature model of Jango Fett. 
Not a bad pun. -Dr. Ochre 


Name: Dr. J P 

Date: 07-02-2018 

Total Items: Five (5) IMI Desert Eagles chambered in 
.5OAE, unloaded. 


Input: One (1) IMI Desert Eagle .50AE 

Setting: Rough 

Output: Approx. 4.4 lb of metal chunks. Consists with 
the weight of one such Desert Eagle. 


Input: One (1) IMI Desert Eagle .50AE 

Setting: Coarse 

Output: One (1) fully disassembled Desert Eagle, each 
component sorted based on size. 


Input: One (1) IMI Desert Eagle .50AE 
Setting: 1:1 
Output: One (1) IWI Jericho 941. 


Picking 


| had a bad habit of picking at my eyelashes while working on 
something. | picked them and | had plucked off only half of some of 
them, leaving a weird little ridge at the end | made in it, which felt 
good to pull gently on. Pick pick pick. Sometimes I'd yank a new one 
out that was attempting to grow out again and it was a fresh 
eyelash, and it was almost an inky black - when | pulled it out, there 
was no sound like the kind scissors make, just a swift and bright 
kind of electric pain that ran through my entire body and my eye 
watered and it was gone. The root of it wasn't skin-colored yet, it 
was still the color of oil, wet, soft and smooth like dipping my hand in 
slowly running cool water. Sometimes | ran the root end along my 
lower lip to feel the softness. 


The bottom eyelashes weren't that satisfying. There wasn't much 
feeling in my bottom eyelids - | don't know if that was just me ora 
universal thing - so there was no sweet pain when | picked them. 
The effect ended up being that all my top eyelashes were gone but 
the bottom ones were still intact. Like the guy in A Clockwork 
Orange. 


| picked a fresh sprout of an eyelash. It was extraordinarily painful 
for only a moment and both my eyes watered. Strangely, for all its 
newness, there was quite a lot of flesh-colored stuff at the bottom. 
That was one deep root. It felt good. 


| got my tweezers from my bathroom and sat on my sink, leaning in 
closely to the mirror. Usually | just pulled them out with my 
fingernails, but tweezers work just as well and my nails were 
beginning to hurt. | saw one little eyelash poking through my eyelid 
just barely enough to count as a sprout. My hands shook as | 
grabbed it with the tweezers and pulled hard. 


After just a split second of a shocking, wonderful agony, it was gone. 
On my tweezers lay a tiny little stump of an eyelash. 


| pulled one that wasn't so new, one that had a ridge on the end of it. 
| yanked hard on it and my eye protested, watering as though I'd 
been mincing onions for an hour, almost to the point where | couldn't 
see. That one had a deep root too. 


There were huge gaps in my eyelashes. | looked like I've been 
punched, the eye I'd been working on was red from all the tears. | 
worked on the other eye instead. Pick pick pick pick pick. Goodbye, 
little fresh eyelashes. Pick pick pick. They were so soft, like the fine 
fur on cats or hamsters. The ones on the edges of my eyelids were 
explosively painful in an impressive and toe-curling way, but nothing 
compared to picking the new ones. 


It soon became dark and I'd made a small pile of eyelashes, young 
and old, on my sink. | had no more left to pluck except for the ones 
on my bottom eyelid. | picked a hair off my scalp experimentally - it 
wasn't even close to as satisfying as picking thicker kinds of hair. | 
gave up on my hair and moved down to my eyebrows. Pick pick 
pick... 


Soon my eyebrows were gone too. | made a mental note to draw 
them back on with eyeliner or something until they grow back. 


The little fuzzy hairs on my arms weren't that great either but | 
picked those too. I'd shaved my legs recently but new hairs were 
beginning to poke through. | tore those off and those tiny pale hairs 
on my torso, and everywhere else | could reach. | sighed when | was 
finished, and thought, to myself, why not? and began to pluck my 
scalp. 


| soon realized with the dawn that | had nothing left to pick but my 
bottom eyelashes. Those disappeared too. 


| sat on my sink for a long while, looking at the pile of hair I'd 
amassed. That was actually pretty nasty. | never thought about it, 
but when hairs aren't attached to a human, they're much more gross 
than they ought to be. | scooped the whole mess into my trashcan. 
Out of habit | reached up to pick my eyelashes, but my eyes were 
completely bare. What to do, what to do, | thought, putting all my 
clothes back on. 


| went back to my living room to watch TV and idly began to pick my 
toenails. 


Pilgrimage 


When you're in a position like mine, there is never time to 
be surprised. Even when each day, | meet new THINGS 
on my skin to crawl around and smile with my gums, | 
think thats all there is too see. Of course, I'm wrong. 
When god ran out of THINGS from this world, he sent 
some from the others to pick up the slack. 


I'm being punished, you know. For my time working with 
the collectors. They stuck me in their little pickle jar, and 
now all my friends, or the ones who were to be called my 
friends, call me crazy and watch me without pity. They 
can't see I'mstillhumanstillhumanstillhumanstillhuman 
like them they cannot see they are blinded by the gnats. 


They used to watch over me every day, making sure | 
didn't try to destroy the world | once strived so hard to 
protect. Then the containment breach sounded. The 
THINGS were let out of their broken jars, and my old 
brothers and friends fled from sight. | thought they had to 
bee back soon. But they never came back. All that was 
left was ME and the THINGS. 


| could hear them creeping out there in the dripping pitch 
blackness, scraping and scratching against their binds. 
Some of their lands had been freed by the compromised 
site, but some had to struggle for years to reach me. 
Even now, there are still trying to skitter their way into my 
places. 


First ones were the shadows. They're always with me. | 
can feel the flat, spindly legs crawling over my body now. 
All over and in over. They're what retaught me that there 
is no such thing as privacy, when THEY spin webs in the 
mind and fly them around like little cranial ziplines. THEY 
catch my thoughts like flies. 


The ants were swarming over me. They rolled off the 
skin and folded it like nice blankets at the foot of the bed. 
My feet were scratched into powder and spread out to 
feed the babies. My eyes were taken, and they saw what 
| saw. Even in my sight, THEY saw it all and could make 
me see what they see | see what THEY want me to see 
all see. 


Then, after taking my privacy, they took my senses. 
From the cicadas, | lost my ears. The parasites took my 
taste, hanging onto the ends of my gums like an artificial 
tongue, flapping in the wind but not tasting a THING. 
Bones are all around me now, making a little nest for all 
my private friends. It's so cozy in me, but | am never 
alone. My thoughts are snapped up and sent through the 
hive that has come to be what used to be me. 


| used to pray to a god, any god, to forgive me and let my 
existence end. That was an exercise in futility. Because | 
know there is no GOD out there, no GOD for these 
THINGS that can be found outside the little room we all 
share together in harmony. 


| am god. 


This document was recovered from the containment chamber of 
SCP-027, following Mass Containment Breach Incident-006. 
Approximately _insectoid anomalies were also recovered within the 
chamber. The note itself appeared to be composed from insect 
cocoon material, and written with fecal matter. Although it is believed 
that SCP-027 still occupies the chamber, it has not been sighted by 
any personnel following its return to Foundation custody. 


Pilot 


CAPTION 

THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN REDACTED BY THE FOUNDATION 
ETHICS COMITTEE AND BY THE COGNITOHAZARD 
DEPARTMENT. REDACTED MATERIAL AVAILABLE ON LEVEL 5 
CERTIFICATION. 

SECURE - CONTAIN - PROTECT