"Don't," Chris said, pulling out a pair of gloves. "Put these on first, at 
least." He produced a pair of gas masks. "These too." 


".,.the hell were you keeping these?" Tritsan asked, slipping on the 
gloves. 


"| don't carry this bag around for fashion purposes," Chris hefted his 
shoulder bag, putting on his gas mask. "You never know what you're 
gonna run into." 


rapidly declines. Personnel who are D-Class or have gone 12 hours 
without getting treatment may request termination. 


Addendum 811-1: To date, SCP-811 has requested: 


Regular delivery of bovine prey (denied) 

That crocodilians be removed from its prey animal rotation 
(approved) 

The water be stocked with a variety of fish species from its 
native (denied) 

One (1) hair brush, made of 100% synthetic materials 
(approved) 

For 1 D-class personnel to, every other day, come in with a 
basin and showerhead to wash and condition its hair 
(approved); it has been noted that standard-strength hair 
shampoos do not adequately clean away the excessive oil in 
SCP-811's hair, and use of a formula with a higher proportion 
of stronger surfactants has been authorised. 

To be addressed by a two-syllable name that has been 
transliterated as “Aé”, SCP-811 being illiterate, and thus not 
capable of choosing a spelling for itself (approved)? 

Relief from its chronic tooth pain. (approved); request was 
initially denied until a safe and effective method of 
administering general anesthesia to SCP-811 was discovered 
and a dental surgery plan devised. Tooth #47 (FDI two-digit 
notation) removed to test method and adjust for unpredicted 
special aftercare requirements. Remainder of SCP-811's teeth 
removed and overdenture implants installed in a second 
operation. SCP-811 supplied with complete dentures, to be 
repaired as needed. 

One (1) turtle in a hazmat suit for non-dietary purposes 
(denied); turtles accordingly removed from prey animal 
rotation. Possibility of placing a small turtle habitat in the 
observation area outside SCP-811's enclosure for enrichment 
under consideration. 


Addendum 811-2: Due to the fact that SCP-811 has lungs and 
teeth — despite having no apparent use for either — it was brought 
to Bio-Research Area-12's radiology lab for X-rays, to examine its 


"Hopefully this is enough protection.” Tristan stepped forward, hand 
outstretched, frowning beneath his mask. "...Chris?" 


"Yeah?" 


Tristan pulled his hand back. "Who called in this thing here? Was it 
Rudy?" 


"It was Cait, his daughter. She works morning shift." He pulled out a 
sample bag and a pair of tweezers. "Why?" 


Tristan stepped back. "Has... anyone seen Rudy today?" 


"| see where you're going with this," Chris stepped forward, 
swallowing and extending his tweezers, "And | hope you're wrong." 


"So do I." Tristan made for the door. "If something happens.. bolt." 


"Right." Chris's hand outstretched towards the scarecrow, shaking, a 
dry gasp filling his mouth. He plucked one of the straws from its right 
arm. 


Its entire hand fell off, revealing a human arm beneath the straw, 
which hung limp, hitting the side of the scarecrow's body with a wet, 
sickening s/lap sound. Chris bolted, sample in hand, along with 
Tristan. Before they cleared the door, the Bailey sibling caught a 
glimpse of the unmistakable ring on the finger: a Harvard class of 
'76 golden ring, one that was worn by Rudolf Dyer, owner of Rudy's 
Cafe. 


Three hours later, Christopher Hastings sat across a table in one of 
Site-87's break rooms, opposite of Dr. Partridge and Tristan Bailey. 
Hastings had his head in his hands, and was wiping tears off his 
face from the news he had received. "Are you sure, Doctor?" He 
asked Doctor Partridge. 


"Yes. All of them contained at least one cadaver." His voice was soft 
and grim. "Some had parts. Thankfully this..." he swallowed. "Is no 
longer a matter for either of our departments. Forensics and 
investigative agents are taking this over now, as are occult studies 
and... god." He rubbed his face. 


"All of them?" Tristan asked. He was drained from what he had just 
heard. "Even— even the one hanging from the side of the old vegan 
place?" Tristan asked. 


"That was Ted Mason, former owner of the buffet, who should be 
serving a goddamn life sentence in Columbia Correctional in 
Portage." Dr. Partridge sighed and took a drink from a flask on his 
belt. "Cover-ops is working their ass off on that matter. Saying he fell 
in his cell and broke his neck." 


"Forty deaths..." Chris chewed his lip. "And might be more coming. 
How is the town not panicking?" 


"They're not panicking because they're evacuating." Dr. Partridge 
stood. "As of an hour ago, Dr. Weiss gave an evacuation order to all 
non-essential civilians." 


"Like that'll help!" Chris snapped. "Mason got snatched from a prison 
300 miles away to have his corpse pinned on the side of his fucked- 
up vegan place!" 


"Hastings, please. Calm down." Dr. Partridge sighed. "I'm just as 
shaken up about this as you are. This is the most deaths the town 
has had since—" 


"1976," the three of them spoke simultaneously. 
"You don't think..." Tristan began. 


"They're looking into it." Dr. Partridge stood. "We're going to be 
having a vigil in front of the site for everyone in town that..." 


"I'll be there," Chris assured him. "I just... need some time." 


"We all do." Dr. Partridge stood and exited the room, rubbing his 
face. "Goddammit." 


"Doc?" Chris asked. 


"| transferred here because this place had one of— one of the 
lowest goddamn mortality rates among US Foundation sites. In 
2009, | saw half a task force feed themselves to a pitcher plant, and 


then | studied how long it took them to be digested. I... needed a 
break after that." He looked up at the ceiling. 


Tristan Bailely wished them a good night, and walked out of the 
room. On the way out, he took his rage out on a grinning plastic 
Jack-O-Lantern that had been pinned on the wall, tearing it down 
and letting out a curse. 


Partridge's eyes widened, an idea entering his head. "Hastings? 
Meet me tonight. Bring as many people from the department as you 
can. I've... had an idea of what's going on. And | don't like it." 


"Yes, sir," Chris nodded, walking around him out of the room. He 
gave the pumpkin a dejected kick. 


Dr. Keith Partridge took a long swig of his flask, before heading out 
the room after them. The light wouldn't go on in the breakroom for 
the rest of the week. 


«Prologue | Black Autumn Hub | Chapter 2 » 


Chapter 1: Verse 1 


In the beginning, there was darkness. All was formless waste and 
empty void - The quiet nothing without time or place, the gentle 
sleep that has no waking. 


All was still. 


Nothing stirred in the darkness. 


Then there was light. 


The light separated the Darkness Above from the Darkness 
Beneath, and there was disparity between them. Between the 
darkness and the light there was also disparity, and shadows 
flickered therein. 


The light shone in the darkness, and was not overcome. Likewise 
the darkness was not destroyed, but given form both Above and 
Below. 


From the darkness came the Eldest, the All-Death. He came from 

the darkness and was of the darkness and was the darkness, and 

nothing to come might pass beyond him. Vast and mighty was he, 
that no other might comprehend the reach of his arm, or the length 
of his gaze. 


The Eldest sat by the light and watched it for a time, for he found the 


light good. 


The All-Death was not proud, firstborn though he was. He 
encompassed all that was and would be within the light and the 
dark, and so knew the manner of its turning and the hour of its 
passing. Only he might care for the light and what was to come, for 
only the Death of All Things might reach so far and be so just. 


The light grew in the sight of the All-Death and became fire. As fire it 
burned and spread outwards, and with the fire came a song: a song 
of the hammer-beat of creation’s forge, the roaring of nuclear 
bellows, the crystal choirs of quarks, the somber tones of gravity 
wells, the shimmering waves of plasma cast off of infant stars. 


Death listened to the music, and found it good. 


From the darkness then came the Great Death, the Middle Brother. 
He was not so mighty nor as vast as the Eldest, though his reach 
was wide indeed. His domain was to be catastrophe, and thus his 
face was obscured by wrought metal and stone. Mountainlike he 
came, the Death of the multitudes, and his heralds came with him — 
their names were Conquest and War and Famine and Disease. 


“Hail and well met, Brother!” spoke the Middle to the Eldest. 


“Well met, Brother,” spoke the Eldest to the Middle. He motioned, 
that the Great Death might take a seat beside him, but the Middle 
Brother remained standing in the shadow of the Eldest, for he did 
not presume equality with his brother, and held fears of the 
unknowable reaches of his brother’s mind. 


The Eldest took no insult from this, and blew upon the fire to kindle 
it. 


Within the fire now could be seen the faint outlines of trunk and root 
and branches, as if made of the finest crystal. The fire flowed 
through the tree and within the tree and around the tree, and the 
song was carried ever louder through the shining branches and 
strong roots. 


“It is good, is it not?” asked the Eldest of the Middle. 


“| cannot say whether it be good or not,” spoke the Middle to the 
Eldest. “It is not my place to declare such things.” 


“For this you are my brother true, and shall help me carry the 
weight,” spoke the Eldest to the Middle. 


From the darkness now came the Small Death, the Youngest 
Brother, pale of face and dark of robe, hard of eye and strict of hand. 
A silver sickle he carried, and it was by this tool that each soul born 
would be collected. 


“Hail, brothers,” spoke the Youngest. 
“Hail. We are together at last,” spoke the Middle. 
“Indeed,” spoke the Youngest. 


The Youngest did not approach his elder brothers, but remained 
apart from them. He was small in reach and mind, and his thoughts 
were narrow, such that the mind of the Middle was terrible to him, 
and the mind of the Eldest more horrible still. He watched the fire 
with cold silver eyes, but said nothing. 


“It is good, is it not?” asked the Eldest of the Youngest. 


“By what measure do you make cruelty goodness?” spoke the 
Youngest. “By what cost of pain must life be bought? By disparity we 
are made, and by disparity we are made necessary, yet why must it 
be so?” 


The Eldest did not answer. He knew the mind of the Small Death, 
and knew of his fears and doubts. No answer he might give would 
aid his brother, nor any truth give him solace. The answers he 
sought were known to the Eldest alone, and he alone might 
understand them. 


The Eldest rose, and towered over his brothers. His countenance 
was as dark as the void of his birth and his robes as white as the 
same. Above his head, shadows swirled about in the dark vaults of 
the heavens — the first of the elder gods kicked in their womb, and 
likewise in the abyss beneath his feet they swam. The tree grew tall 
and broad, shone bright and sang loud. 


“Come, brothers,” the Eldest said. “Let us go to our halls and take up 
our residence there. A great work awaits us.” 


There was agreement between the Great and the Small, and the 
Brothers Three passed from the light of the tree into shadow. 


Later, there was the click of sensible heels, and a woman stepped 
out of the darkness. She beheld the tree for a moment, before 
stepping into its light and passing beyond. 


The tree grew strong, and the vaults of heaven and the depths of the 
abyss gave birth. 


This is how creation came about. 


A Brief Flashback 


October 18th 
The littlest things make the greatest impact upon this world. 


Two months ago, a dog ran through tall grass somewhere in Ohio, 
carrying spores on its fur. A child cuddles it. 


One month and twenty days ago, a father reads to his child in bed. 
The child cuddles his favorite toy, a stuffed tiger named Oscar. The 
spores from the dog migrate to Oscar. 


One month and nineteen days ago, Oscar is due to be washed, but 
goes missing. His father, off to work somewhere far away, has 
accidentally put it in his briefcase. 


One month and seventeen days ago, Oscar is bound for home by 
mail. The boy's father now has innumerable spores on his suit, and 
within his briefcase. 


One month and fourteen days ago, the man and his briefcase enter 
a fairground filled with pumpkins. Decontamination procedures fail, 
as the man opens a file and presents it to a woman, named Dr. 
Carol Brown. 


One month and ten days ago, Dr. Carol Brown does a preliminary 
survey of an organism they refer to as SCP-097-1. It is healthy, as it 
has always been. It has survived forty-eight of the harshest winters 
in North America, from the Blizzard of '78 to the Polar Vortex. Surely 
the spores on her clothes won't transmit. 


One month and seven days ago, signs of fungal infection appear on 
several vines throughout the zone of containment. They are burned, 
chopped, salted. Several of them bleed. Some of the blood has 
bones mixed into it. 


One month ago, | felt my prison dying. | had forgotten | was even 
imprisoned, but then | remember the traitorous Karcist, the sadistic 
author, the cowardly mayor, and the prideful mage. The first planted 
my seed here, and had forgotten me over the many years. The 
second was buried in a pine box. The mayor, the poor mayor, had 
been turned into pumpkin food as a last, black act by the Karcist. 
And the mage... 


Richard Gideon. Rot in Hell. You bound me to a place that | can 
never escape. 


Or can |? 


Three weeks ago, panicked voices. They see my shell starting to rot. 
Arguments are had, between people, between telephones. They do 
not know what my prison holds, but they know that if it dies, then 
with it goes their status quo. 


Humans always disappoint. Children have the most potential, and 
when they grow, they squander it. They see my cell dying, and all 
they care for is their normalcy. 


Two weeks ago, and I've learned to control the fungus. It is an agent 
of Rot and Decay, and | am the Black Autumn. | am the thing that 
eats the year's failures, the fungal signal, the final rot, the chill 
before frost. | dispel it enough that it seems that my prison is 
recovering, and the crisis has passed. 


But the bars have bent enough that | am able to squeeze through 
them. 


One week ago, | realize that | am only half-whole. The other half of 
myself is locked in an Inn, and | remember everything done in that 
hotel, everyone who has visited. | can use this information. | just 
need to work out how to make a phone call. 


Six days ago, all activity that surrounds me ceases. Relief sets in, 
and they think it a quiet night. 


Four days ago, they realize it is too quiet. Paranoia is seeded; the 
Founders jump at shadows. A man faints at the sound of a crow. 


Three days ago, | form three cracks in my prison. | am not without a 
flair for the dramatic. 


Two days ago, | make the cracks grow larger. 


Yesterday, | let myself out. They did not know | was present, until 
they started rotting 


One 
By 
One 
By 
One 


| save those who are the most frightened for last. It is not death that 
feeds me, not truly. It is the anxiety surrounding death, the thought 
of not knowing which breath will be your last, whether you should 
scream or proclaim love or pray. 


| keep puppets. To their ever-watchful eyes, all seems normal. Men 
and women walk around, guarding gourds and corn and rotten 
apples and abandoned toys, left by children who | have 
unconsciously claimed. 


For almost half a century, | have eaten their fears, their bodies, their 
hearts. But | do not remember it. | am hungry, and angered. | want 
out.