the more isolated communities of our state, in search of new and 
unknown cults and factions to be studied and catalogued, and had 
followed with great interest his despatches from Innsmouth, 
Newcastle, and Hadley's Fork. His ultimate post to Site 19 had come 
from Ayrshire, a place | had had difficulty even locating on the 
surveyors’ maps, saying that he intended to stay a week or two and 
study a peculiar Pentecostalist church he had heard rumours of. 
That, of course, was nearly two months past, and no letter nor 
telegram nor telephone call from the Professor had been received. 


Ayrshire, as | learned while poring over the books at Arkham Library 
yesterday morn, lay some hundred miles or so to the west, nestled 
on the northeast shore of Chatham Lake and surrounded on all 
sides by the ancient and virgin woods. In the middle of the 
nineteenth century, the town had been called home by a population 
of as many as three thousand, and boasted a mill and a rail line to 
Boston. The war, so the newspapers said, had dealt a hard blow to 
the town's economy in the past decade; with so many of the town's 
young men having journeyed across the ocean never to return, the 
mill had closed, the trains ran westward less and less often, and of 
its former population perhaps three or four hundred remained. 
Seeking transport to the village was as difficult as finding it on the 
map - the rail line had been covered by a mudslide during the recent 
rains and was not expected to be cleared before the first snowfall, 
no paved roads lead there, and | could find no map nor guide 
thorough enough to allow me to motor into the woods on my own. It 
was only after enquiring with half the bus companies in the state that 
| found a small coach line that operated a single daily trip passing 
through Ayrshire on its way to Amherst, and now | found myself 
approaching that destination. 


"Next stop - Ayrshire!" the driver shouted, waking me from my 
reverie as the coach rounded a bend and came into sight of an old 
dilapidated house. The streets of Ayrshire were at least paved, but 
they were in dire need of maintenance, no motor cars or lorries were 
to be seen, and the ride to the city centre felt no less turbulent than 
the previous several hours had been. The bus rolled past row after 
row of houses and shops and churches that looked as if they had 
not known habitation in years; it seemed we passed fifteen 
abandoned ramshackles for every house that stood in a state of 


Agent. You had a harrowing, traumatic experience based 
around this individual. In order to survive, you had to, in your 
own words, "get into her head, realize how she ticks." one 
might even say that there was some times you spent as her 
captive, during the hunt in the woods. 


| don't know what you're getting at. 

Have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome? 

Yes. 

Is it possible that... 

No. 

No? 

No. Just no. 

Thank you very much for your time, Agent. 

<End Log> 

Closing Statement: Agent is to be transferred to Site-51 for 
psychological analysis and debriefing. The OoPArt in question is to 


be remanded to Secure Confinement Protocols as indicated in 
Document 953-Aleph. 


On a side note, | am appalled by the level of superstition expressed 
by Agent throughout the course of this interview. | am 
recommending that his suggestions regarding containment be 
disregarded for a more scientific approach. We're not old Korean 
fishwives here, I'm sure we can think of something more effective 
than dogs and needles. 


Assistant Director 


Addendum: As of - - , SCP-953 has made three escape 
attempts, each time resulting in the deaths of those operatives most 


repair, and | wondered if the Professor's rumours and the Census 
reports had been false and we had in fact driven into a ghost town. 
In the distance, near the lakeshore, hulked the ruins of the old mill, 
silent and still, towering ominously over the dwellings that once had 
housed its workers. Though the sun's amber gloaming already grew 
dim behind the treeline, the electric lamps that lined the kerbs 
remained dark, and the only lights | espied in the curtained windows 
flickered and gyred as if cast by a candle rather than from a bulb. 
The bus slowed to a stop at the edge of the town common, a small 
overgrown park at the corner of First and Washington, and the door 
rolled open as | rose, valise in hand, and strode to the front. 


"Thank you, my good man," | said to the driver, and handed him a 
dollar for his trouble. 


"You're very welcome," the driver said, "but are you sure you 
wouldn't rather stay on and head for Amherst? I've heard queer 
things of this town, and the older | get, the queerer the tales grow. 


This is no place for tourists to go a-gawkin’. 


"lam not here for pleasure, | assure you," | responded. "I am 
seeking out an old acquaintance of mine. Perhaps you recall an 
older fellow who stopped here about two months ago?" 


"Ayuh," the driver said. "He didn't want to share his business and | 
didn't care to pry. If he ever left here, he must have hitched a ride on 
a flying carpet, because | certainly didn't pick him up." 


"Then perhaps | shall enquire at the local rug-maker's. Do you 
perchance know the way to Grainger's Inn?" 


"Five blocks west down Washington. I'd make haste if | were you - 
I've heard tell it's not wise for visitors to be seen on the streets of 
Ayrshire after dark." 


| nodded and smiled as | turned away and stepped off the coach. 
The air smelled rich, yet stagnant, full of memories and regret, as | 
disembarked onto the sidewalk. The motor-coach pulled away, 
seeming to double its speed as it made for the edge of town, anda 
quiet | have not heard since my visit to the ruins of Ib fell over the 
deserted streets. | fancied that a pair of eyes watched me 


suspiciously from the second storey window of a collapsing edifice 
on the other side of the green, but | saw nor heard a single soul 
other than myself, nor even the cry of a bird or the chirrup of a 
cricket, as | turned and made my way east through the empty roads 
of Ayrshire. 


It was two blocks from the stop, as | stood in the middle of a 
deserted street, the coach surely having put a mile or more between 
myself and any hope of evacuation for the next twenty-four hours, 
that the sun dipped below the horizon in the west. 


It was from somewhere behind me that the first scream echoed out. 


The Builder 


The rusted door of the small chapel creaked open as Robert 
Bumaro stepped in. The head of the Church let out a few heavy 
breaths, regaining his composure after the long trek. But it was nota 
dark hall, barely used and covered with spider webs that greeted 
him. Rather, the dusts that collected over the long years had been 
cleaned, and the candles around the altar were alight, faintly 
illuminating the room. 


Beneath it, a figure in dark robes knelt, seemingly praying. They 
were motionless, perhaps too engrossed in their silent chant. Their 
long hair dripped down onto their robes, which shimmered under the 
candle light. A low hum could be heard. 


Bumaro was alarmed; there shouldn't be anyone at the chapel, for 
its existence was a secret shared among the few he trusted, and this 
person was not one he recognized. But the humming assured him 
that the mechanism installed here was still working. He was alone, 
with no follower or agent with him, but he had other means of 
protection here. 


As he closed the door behind him, the figure straightened up. The 
movement came so natural, as if they weren't startled in the 
slightest, anticipating his arrival all along. Bumaro reassured himself 
again that this was his place, his territory, and that he had nothing to 
fear. 


"Who is this?" Bumaro demanded in a voice that exerted authority, 
which he had learned to use through his years as a cult leader. "You 
don't belong here." 


"Is this not a place of the God?" The person's voice carried a 
unearthly echo, yet it was strangely soothing. 


It was indeed, for a complex machinery of brass and steel was 
placed upon the altar, a humble representation of the Church's deity. 


And as Bumaro examined it again, he found it to have been newly 
oiled. All the filth was wiped clean and corroded surfaces were 
polished anew. 


A follower of the Broken God, then, Bumaro thought, and he found 

the thought reassuring. After the recent failure, it was good to be in 
the presence of one of the believers again, and he felt slightly more 
in control. 


"Of course, but you should realize that this place is for private 
gatherings." He then added: "It's good to see someone remain 
faithful after the recent setback, but | must ask you to take your 
leave." 


"Setback." the person repeated. They made no attempt to move. "Is 
this what you call it?” 


Bumaro felt a sudden surge of frustration. As if it wasn't enough that 
his life's work had gone to waste. "Listen, | have no time for this, and 
| will not let you speak ill of the Church or the God. Do you even 
know who you're speaking to?" 


"| Know exactly who you are, ‘father'’.” It was the same flat voice that 
answered him. 


Somewhat angered by the indifference of this stranger, Bumaro took 
a few steps forward. But almost immediately, he was taken aback, 
as the candle light now illuminated the figure much better. Their hair 
was no hair at all, but strings of iron or steel, impossibly thin, which 
reflected the wavering flames of the candle. Black robes shifted to 
reveal burnished brass instead of skin. 


Bumaro made a small gasp, and almost lost his footing. At the same 
time, the stranger decided to get up and face him, and as they 
turned, Bumaro's brain finally registered what he was looking at. 


The person was no human at all. They were an automaton, a 
mechanical wonder. Even under the dim light, the fine details were 
impossible to miss. The brass that composed their skin sealed away 
the clockwork inside and every joint fit together perfectly. Their face 
was the most human-like he had ever seen; crystal eyes capable of 


turning and even blinking. He realized in horror that the humming 
sound he was hearing was not coming from the machine he put here 
years ago, but from the metallic being before him. 


Was this once a human? Compared with this, the "augmentations" 
his Church offered seemed crude, graceless, even barbaric. 


"Impossible." Bumaro's voice was shaking. 


But the person disregarded him. "Do you realize what you have 
wrought?" 


"No, listen." Bumaro stammered, trying to put his thoughts together. 
"|, [had no idea! This is a miracle, you are a miracle! With this, you 
and I, we can put the Church back onto its feet again. People will 
have faith again." 


"Is this what the Broken One is for you? An instrument for the 
Church?" The person's voice was still monotone. Their expression 
was blank, but their eyes stared intently. 


"It was merely a mistake, a mistake that can be corrected!" Authority 
had long gone from Bumaro's voice, replaced by awe and 
desperation. "Join me, and we can build the god again." 


"No more." The person closed their eyes, as if in pain. Their hand 
clutched at their chest, trying to get ahold of something inside. "All 
you did was bring suffering and loss. Even now, | feel the anguished 
cries of the Broken One — more broken than ever. Can you even 
understand what you have done?" 


"Listen, you must understand, I—" Bumaro attempted again, but 
another voice interrupted him. 


"You can give up now, Prophet. This man is a fool, and knows not 
what he's meddling with." Another mechanical voice, this time much 
sharper, grittier. 


He turned to see that two other people stepped out of the darkness 
of the shadow. His eyes widened as he saw another automaton, 
adorning a red robe, more heavy and crude in design. No attempt 
was made to hide the metallic skull and the clockwork underneath, 


making her resemble the dead more than the living. Heavy chains 
were mounted at the back of her head, sharp teeth were exposed 
with no lips to cover them, and aperture-like eyes stared right out of 
the eye sockets, though not at him. 


The man with her was noticably lanky, and wore a clean white suit. 
He was still flesh and blood, yet carried an eerie aura. Perhaps it 
was because his face was locked in a neutral expression, his eyes 
unblinking. It felt as if he was less alive than the two automata of 
bronze and steel. 


It took Bumaro a moment to realize that one of the woman's hands 
was a sharp blade, and yet another moment to realize that she had 
raised it, coming towards him. He let out a small whimper. 


"We cannot afford unwanted attention." The other man said flatly 
towards the woman. "The basement of this structure may be 
suitable for this situation." 


"No." The Prophet raised a hand to stop them. "He is here to face 
judgment, not torture." 


"Judgement?! No. No!" Bumaro yelled, anger washing over fear as 
he regained some courage. "This is my place, my chapel! Whatever 
you are, however you think of yourself and the God, how dare you 
even imply that! | am Robert Bumaro, dispatch the intruders!" 


As he shouted out the command, the machine he had imbedded 
here, the one he built alongside the building, let out a loud shriek. 
Then the ticking started and one gear moved the next. Despite the 
long years of inactivity and rust, it still worked. It was his proudest 
work and, of course, he had saved it for himself. 


Walls were parted, and the predesigned traps were all up. Only he 
would get out alive; even bodies of steel and brass could not 
possibly bear this. There was a release of steam and a chorus of 
ticking, as if the machine was answering to him triumphantly. 


But then, it stopped. Silence fell once more, except for the humming 
from the automata. 


He noticed that the woman was staring at the parts of the machine 
that exposed itself. Inexplicably, he understood that it was not his 
machine that had malfunctioned; it was her that willed it to stop. She 
looked back at him, and he felt only contempt from the 
expressionless face. 


She grabbed Bumaro by the collar. The Prophet shook their head; 
the other man remained still and watched. 


"No! You can't do this to me!" he yelled in desperation. "We are all 
followers of the Broken God, is that not true? | can help you, my 
followers can help you. Yes, my followers, they still trust me, they 
only trust me! You can't just take over, the Church would be in 
disarray. But | can help you, you don't need to do this!" 


The woman let out a wave of steam from her mouth, seemingly 
displeased. Nevertheless, she halted her blade. Bumaro felt hopeful 
as the Prophet was obviously also considering it. 


"May | suggest,” the man in the suit spoke. "A full conversion is 
almost unheard of among the believers of the Church. Any physical 
and mental changes could be ascribed to the enlightenment of God; 
and that would be what we tell the followers." 


Silence fell again, as Bumaro's thoughts turned, implications sinking 
in. 


"No... no. No! You can't do that!" Bumaro's voice turned from barely 
a whisper to a desperate cry. 


"Can it be done?" The Prophet asked. 


"It should work," The woman answered. "You were in need of an 
identity, after all." 


"Very well." 


"No, no! I'm Father Robert Bumaro, leader of the Church! | built the 
God!" But he was no longer whom he claimed to be. 


Robert Bumaro came to the altar, and knelt down once again. His 
long silver hair shimmered in the candle light. The other two 


witnessed as the leader of the Church swore his oath before the 
God; the now nameless man cried and begged but his voice was 
disregarded. 


“I, Robert Bumaro,” he said in a mechanical monotone, “swore to 
remake the Broken Church, and built the God as she should have 
been.”