Dr. Jacob Andrews stood in the hallway of Site 19's medical ward, in 
front of the door to the examination room where his subject for the 
day was strapped to a bed. Dr. Andrews had never worked face-to- 
face with a living, breathing SCP object before - his degree was in 
Latin, after all, and the bulk of his work revolved around translating 
and interpreting ancient documents. As it happened, however, Latin 
was the only language the creature recognized that anyone at Site 
19 was capable of speaking fluently - and Dr. Andrews was the only 
person available who spoke it. 


"Just remain calm, remember the briefing, and you'll be fine,” 
Security Director Jefferson told him as he retrieved a key ring from 
his belt and unlocked the door. "Do not touch the creature, allow any 
part of your body to come within reach of its mouth, or attempt to 
loosen or remove any of its bonds. We'll be watching and listening in 
the whole time and if anything goes wrong we'll be through the door 
in under five seconds. If you need out, the safe word is 'bonavox'. All 
clear?" 


"Yes, sir," Dr. Andrews nodded. 
"Then good luck," Jefferson said. 


Andrews grasped the knob and turned it, slowly opening the door. A 
beam of light from the corridor spread out into the room and onto the 
Spartan bed that alone furnished it - and no sooner did those rays of 
light strike the thing on the bed than it began seizing and shaking, 
struggling against the straps that held it in place as it hissed and 
snarled. It shouted and shrieked in a strangely accented language 
that Dr. Andrews took to be an archaic dialect of Romanian, no 
doubt (as attested in the briefing he had received) begging that the 
light be put out. Andrews stepped into the room and closed the door 
behind him, leaving the room pitch black but for the dim readout of 
the heart monitor next to its bed - a monitor which read that the 
thing's blood pressure was impossibly low, its pulse and respiration 


far too meager to sustain life, its body core only a few degrees 
warmer than the air around it. 


"lam going to need to be able to see you to perform my work," 
Andrews said in Latin. "May | light a dim light?" 


"If you must," responded a weak, barely audible voice in kind. 
Andrews touched the dimmer switch that had been installed by the 
door and brought the ceiling lamp to its lowest setting. Even in this 
dim glare, the creature on the bed shook and squinted its eyes, but 
seemed to be in less distress than it had before. 


In the amber glow, Andrews got his first good look at the tall, gaunt 
creature that lay before him, nude but for a hospital gown, an IV bag 
of blood draining slowly into its arm, leather straps around its wrists 
and ankles holding it in place. Its skin was a pale gray, mottled and 
speckled with black and purple like a slowly rotting corpse, dry and 
stretched taut over its bony limbs, ribs poking out of its chest like an 
emaciated prisoner. It was hairless, but for the shock of unkempt 
and brittle hair on its head, which, whatever color it had been at first, 
had been bleached blond by the centuries. A pair of bloodshot, 
pinkish eyes were barely visible behind its half-closed eyelids. Its 
teeth, yellow, misshapen, and cracked, were bared behind its dried, 
curled-back lips. The thing seemed to struggle for every breath, its 
chest rising and falling with great difficulty, each exhalation 
accompanied by a dry wheeze interspersed with bouts of violent 
coughing. It reeked of dried blood, rotting flesh, and the stink of the 
grave. 


"My name is Dr. Jacob Andrews," Andrews said, "and | work for the 
Foundation. | have been instructed to ask you some questions so 
that my superiors can determine whether you pose a threat and 
what means will be necessary to keep you safely contained. Do you 
understand?" 


"Your Latin is excellent," the thing replied in what Andrews now 
recognized to be a thick Slavic accent. "Are you from the Roman 
church?" 


"No, I'm just a..." Andrews searched his mind for a word the thing 
would recognize. "...a scholar. A historian, if you will.” 


"Then at least | know | shall not be burned this day," the thing said, 
chuckling to itself before a coughing spasm overtook it. Andrews 
noticed that though it could barely manage a whisper, and each 
syllable seemed to come only at great effort, there was a certain 
genteel nature to its speech, a refined, carefully considered grace to 
each word. 


"Our purpose here is to secure, contain, and protect," Andrews said. 
"What of you? Are you a man of God?" 


"You ask if | believe in God?" the creature spat. "What kind of god 
would allow a thing such as | to exist? No, |am no holy man." 


"Then who are you?" 


"A man of noble birth," the thing said, taking a deep breath in 
anticipation of its next sentence. "| was - | am the duke of Oltenia, as 
was my father before me, and his father before him, and his before 
him, and his before him who freed us all from the rule of the Turks." 


"And what is your name?" 


The thing paused. "I... | do not remember," it said. "It has been a 
long time since | have had need of a name." 


"| guess I'll just have to call you Duke, then," Andrews replied. "How 
old are you, Duke?" 


"| cannot say. | do not know what year this is." 
"2012." 


"Two thousand and twelve," Duke said to himself. He was silent for 
a moment, seemingly taking in the realization of how much time had 
passed. "Then | suppose | must be seven hundred years old, or so." 


"Do you not know when you were born?" 


"| remember so little from those days. It was such a long time ago. | 
remember the sensations most of all, the things lost forever... the 
smell of my mother's perfume, the taste of meat roasted on the 
bone, the warmth of the fire, what it felt like to kiss a girl for the first 


time, the sting on my cheek when she slapped me for trying to reach 
under her skirt." Duke laughed at his own joke, and laughing once 
more gave way to coughing. 


"What do you remember distinctly of your life before you became as 
you are now?" 


"That | was a prince among men," Duke said. "| fought the Turks. | 
fought the Greeks. | fought the Serbs. | fought anyone who was 
foolish enough to face me! None dared challenge my word. Those 
who did... well, my enemies were known to whisper that | roasted 
the vanquished alive and dined on their flesh! Truth be told, | only 
did it once. | didn't care for it.” 


"How did you come to be as you are now?" 
Duke sighed. "I didn't want to die. And | was dying." 
"Of what?" 


"Consumption," Duke said before launching into another fit of 
coughing. Andrews noticed for the first time the fine pinkish mist that 
Duke ejected from his throat with each cough, and reminded himself 
to get a full checkup after this interview was over. "| had watched it 
take my mother and my sister. | did not wish to die as they did. | 
offered half my fortune to whoever could provide me with the secrets 
of eternal life." 


"And someone made you an offer?" 


"Many people. Doctors, priests, historians like yourself. | turned the 
preachers away. The doctors, | bade to try their craft on a peasant 
first. Most of the peasants died - and so | took those doctors and 
mounted them on spikes in front of my keep as a warning to those 
who would try to cheat a duke. Eventually, a witch came before me, 
one of the secret practitioners of the old cults, who proposed that | 
could live forever - if only | became a strigoi." 


"What's a strigoi?" 


Duke laughed so hard Andrews feared he might crack a rib. "You 
have obviously never been to Oltenia,” he said, "or you would know. 


Check the current documentation of SCP-884 for complete 
information on the object, as it is the last remaining piece in 
Foundation custody. 


SCP-884-5: The Scissors 


SCP-884-5 was the first of the objects to be completely understood 
by the Foundation. SCP-884-5 was a pair of silver scissors with an 
etched design (undescribed in existing documents) which were used 
to "open" and "close" things. Initial data noted in the personal 
records of the supervising doctor at the time recorded the basic 
effect: 


"When pointed at a closed door with the blades closed, 
the door could be opened by simply opening the blades. 
When pointed at a door which was open with the blades 
open, then closing them, then door would close. The 
effect works on boxes, locks, crates, drawers, and most 
other objects. There is no effect on an "open" object if 
the blades start closed, and there is no effect ona 
"closed" object if the blades start open. The effect 
functions normally if they're turned to the side, though, 
and opened at the floor or other object which can't be 
opened or closed. A quaint, largely useless item." 


The full extent of SCP-884-5's effect was not understood until a few 
weeks later, when it was accidentally used on a living person, and 
"opened" them. The subjects "organs, bones, and viscera" were 
"ripped out of their orifices" and deposited on the ground before their 
skin turned itself inside out. "Closing" the pile of body parts resulted 
in the messy, inefficient, incomplete reassembly of the subject, who 
sometimes continued to live for minutes after the event. 


Furthermore, the original testing chamber later became more and 
more dangerous as the full ramifications of "opening" and "closing" 
the scissors was discovered. Surfaces which were "opened" slowly 
lost strength, became more and more brittle, and eventually 
crumbled. The inverse effect was seen in surfaces which were 
closed. Some samples still remain, but their study showed no 
definitive reason for the cause of the effect. 


The strigoi are beasts. Mindless savages, born from the carcasses 
of unrepentant sinners. They stalk the places that are called home 
by the dead - cemeteries, battlefields, gallows, cities stricken by the 
plague - and they feast on the flesh and blood of the dead. If there is 
no dead meat to be found and they are hungry, they will sometimes 
attack the living. Their bite is poison. It brings unimaginable pain" - 
Duke grimaced, as if in memory of that pain - "and if the beast does 
not kill you and devour you itself, then you too will lose your mind 
and become as they are." 


"Is that what you are now?" 
"No," Duke said. "| am something far greater." 
"Explain." 


"| nearly killed the witch myself for suggesting | become one of those 
abominations. She protested that | had misunderstood her - she 
knew a way, an ancient secret of the heathen princes of old, that 
could allow me to become ageless as the strigoi are, but maintain 
my senses. | gave her leave to test it on a prisoner - and indeed, it 
worked." 


"What became of the prisoner?" 


"| ordered him burned at the stake," Duke said. "There was only 
room for one immortal in my duchy." 


"So you underwent this same ritual?" 


"Yes," Duke said almost mournfully. "We captured one of the wild 
strigoi that lurked where the bodies of plague victims were burned. 
On the night of a full moon, the witch brought it before me and 
allowed it to bite me." Duke nodded his head toward his left arm, at 
a solid black patch of flesh above the elbow. "For three days | was in 
unbearable anguish. My skin became pale and | could no longer 
bear the sunlight, and | felt as though | would soon go mad. On the 
third night, after bathing me in the blood of an unbaptized Turk, the 
witch slit the strigoi's throat and bade me drink its blood. | vomited at 
first. She forced my face back to its throat and yelled at me to keep 
drinking. The more | drank, the better it tasted. Once | had had my 


fill, the witch proclaimed the ritual was complete - and so long as | 
kept a watchful eye on my enemies, | would never die." 


"So she earned the reward you promised?" 


"Of course not," Duke said. "I tore into her throat and drank her 
blood the next night. None but those | trusted with my life could 
know what | had become and remain alive. Even my wife became 
repulsed by the sight and smell of me. Her blood was delicious." 


"Did you eat their flesh as well?" 


"| never cared for the flesh. The blood was what | craved - delicious, 
and alive, and warm. So much of what it means to be a man, | can 
no longer experience. | see the fire, but | do not feel its heat. Only 
when fresh blood is running through my veins do | truly feel warm 
anymore." 


"How often do you need to feed?" 


"| do not need to feed at all. I... enjoy it. There are so few pleasures 
of the flesh available to a man in my condition." 


"How often are you hungry?" 


"Lam always hungry. | am always thirsty. | am always tired, and 
sore, and aching, and sick. The old wounds never heal, the old 
pains never subside. | can drink until my stomach feels ready to 
burst, and still | hunger." 


"How long did you continue to live as a duke after you changed?" 


"Fifty years or so. | had to hide my face from the people and stay 
alone in the dark. The light burns, like being thrown into a fire. Even 
this glare now is quite unbearable." 


"What happened to change things?" 


"One of the peasant girls | intended to make a meal of escaped and 
informed the church of what | had become. The damned bishop 
incited the serfs to revolution and burned my keep. They would have 
burned me with it if | had not escaped into the woods." 


"Where did you go then?" 


"In the woods | remained until your mercenaries made a prisoner of 
me. | thought many times of trying to reclaim my land, but | am 
not..." Duke stopped to catch his breath. "| am not as strong or 
charismatic as once | was." 


"What did you do for all those years?" 


"| occupied myself with my thoughts, mostly. There have been times 
where | have simply crawled into a cave, or a hollow log, or covered 
myself with the earth and simply laid for days, or months, or years 
because | did not wish to move. When people came hunting the 
strigoi, | hid and fled. When | desired to do so, | preyed on 
huntsmen, and travelers, and others lost in the woods. It is quite 
simple to stalk a lone hunter in silence until he makes camp and falls 
asleep, then come upon him in the darkness and tear out his throat 
before he awakens. To hunt the animals is different - their senses 
are so much more attuned to the sound - and the smell - of death." 


"Did you ever encounter other strigoi like yourself?" 


"No, only the mad beasts. If they came into my woods, | killed them. 
They are fierce when cornered, but easy enough to lure into a well- 
laid trap." 


"Do you ever regret what you've become?" 


Duke paused a moment, looking down at his frail, emaciated frame. 
"If | had known this would be the price of immortality... perhaps | 
would have waited for another offer to come along." Duke chuckled. 


"The strigoi are not truly ‘immortal’, | take it." 


"| hunger, but | will never starve. | thirst, but | will never grow 
parched. | can barely breathe..." appropriately enough, Duke 
stopped again, struggling to catch his breath after winding himself. "| 
cannot breathe, but | will never choke. | am sick, but | shall never 
waste away. | shall live forever." 


"But can you be killed?" 


"| suppose. If you took my head, or pierced my heart, or set me 
aflame, or hacked me to bits, it would kill me as surely as any mere 
man." 


"Have you ever tried to take your own life, or provoke someone to 
kill you?" 


"No." Duke's answer was flat and immediate. 
"Why not?" 
"Because | still don't want to die." 


"| don't understand," Andrews said. "You've lived alone in the woods 
for seven hundred years as a frail monster that most people would 
kill on sight. Wouldn't death be a relief?"