The bullets ricocheted off a patch of air, sparking and flying off in 
wide arcs. The next three, fired at different places, had the same 
result. The man said more, though none of his words shook the 
world in the same way, and Egret tried to punch him. Her fist 
stopped in the same place. Dhole watched as Egret struck the air 
again, and again, and again, red stain slowly spreading. She 
watched as one last blow was delivered, an open slap that 
splattered droplets of blood out across an invisible dome. 


The two of them left the same way that they arrived, trekking across 
the wide fields until they reached an off-white van. Egret muttered 
dark things about magicians and their ways, cursing whatever new 
ones would be arriving to help their comrade. Dhole tried to ignore 
her, and tried to ignore the sky as well. It felt as though it had drawn 
particularly low to watch the affair unfold. 


Dhole felt naked without her mask. She felt empty without it. She felt 
dead. Egret had insisted that wearing it would reveal herself to 
anyone prepared to see things beyond banal normalcy, and Dhole 
resented her all the same. Brown hat pulled low to shade her orange 
eyes, brown shirt ruffling in the hot wind, she dutifully carried a 
cardboard box up to the front gate of a respectfully large house, 
rung the doorbell twice, and walked away at a measured pace. 


Dhole was resentful, yes, but for more than the issue of her mask. 
She resented being pushed to carry the box, though she had not 
built the device inside it. She resented being pushed to make the 
delivery, though she would not be the one to to put it to use. She 
resented it all, because she knew she was not a monster. 


Minutes later, an explosion rippled through the suburban 
neighborhood. No casualties were ever reported, much to Egret's 
vocal annoyance. 


Dhole and Egret traded shifts watching the entrance of a tall 
apartment building for what seemed an eternity. They lurked in a tiny 
apartment, furnished only with a single mattress, and stared out the 
tiny window in a fruitless, unending watch. A tiny radio announced 
the scores of sporting matches, the changing of the skies, and the 


state of violent expeditions to foreign places. Dhole hated the small 
thing, hated Egret, and hated herself. She ate paper cups of 
steaming noodles and did her best to push everything else away. 


A series of muffled cracks woke her from a fitful sleep one morning. 
Egret gnashed her teeth as they left the place, and Dhole could not 
help but hear it as the sharpening of one knife against another. 


"He’s here, and the Overseer is impatient,” said Egret, jamming her 
phone back into a pocket. Her chipper tone was intact, but only just. 
Dhole could hear the cracks forming in it. 


"Such is the houndmaster’s wont." The two of them stood next to a 
tiny creek, surrounded by old trees and lit by shafts of light from a 
noon sun. 


"Don't call her that. She’s busy. She needs this done! We’re failing 
her." 


"To slay a mage is no small thing. Should we not —" 
"No. You know what to do. Go." 


Dhole could have argued further, as she had for most of the day. 
She could have screamed more too, and wailed on top of that. The 
pull of her contract would not be denied though, not if she wanted 
her heart to keep on beating. Dhole walked through the forest 
alongside the creek, down a short hill, and along a path at its 
bottom. The sky sunk down above her, watchful and unblinking. The 
pocket of her coat felt unnaturally heavy under its gaze. 


It felt like she walked the path for hours, though the sun remained in 
place above her all the way. The narrow trail led her to a sheer cliff, 
a nearby bench, and a man sitting on it. His black hair was combed, 
his thick beard was neatly trimmed, and he exuded a sense of calm 
Dhole had never felt before, even in the holiest of people. She only 

paused for a moment before sitting next to him. 


"Hail, friend," he said, looking down at her mask. "Is a coven 
nearby? You have our air about you." 


Dhole stared up at the man, impossibly aware of how very alive he 
was. There was vigor in his eyes and passion in his voice. There 
was a lifetime of experiences crammed into his being. Bile rose in 
the back of her throat. 


"| usually wouldn't turn away the company of a fellow truthseeker," 
he continued, "especially not in a place of power, but you should 
leave. Jailers and bookburners are on the hunt, and | can feel their 
distant malice. It isn’t safe near me.” 


It was hard to think of anything to say to that. No words came out 
when Dhole opened her mouth. She pulled the trigger of the stubby 
gun stuffed in her coat’s pocket instead. Even at the odd angle, she 
didn't miss. There was the barest moment to register his expression, 
lips slightly parted, nose flaring, eyes wide, before a distant shot 
sounded and his head snapped forward. She stared mutely at the 
corpse next to her, and kept staring as his body slumped to the 
ground. 


Dejection. Disdain. Disgust. Dhole felt all of those as she sat on the 
bench and looked up at the sky. It would have been better if she had 
never come to this alien place, seeking alien books. It would have 
been better if she had listened to her friend and not tried to make 
sense of them. It would have been best of all if she had not groveled 
for her life like some common mongrel. 


She could have told herself that she was still no monster, could have 
said that it was the Overseer who pulled the gun’s trigger through 
Egret, then through Dhole herself. She could have said it again and 
again, but she wouldn’t have believed it. 


« Previous Tale | Maim the Sky, Slay the Sun | Next Tale » 


Underbed 


my mummy bouhgt me a diary | really like it 

| dunt really know how to write good yet tough 
it has butterflies on it 

| like butterflies and green creyons 

| writted this with creyon 

okay | have to go eat now there is meatballs 
bye bye diarey 


| heard mr. underbed again 

he waches me sleep 

mommy says there is nothing underbed 
but | saw his hand tooking my teddy 

i couldnt find teddy in morning 

| cried a lot 

he has hairy hands 

like dad 

mommy said she would get me a nitelight 
| think she is lying 

underbed is afraid of light 

thats why he only comes at night 


Mommy says | should get rid of my plushies. She says | am a big 
boy now. | am at second grade and do not need a nightlight either. 
She does'nt know about mr. Underbed. | haven't told anyone not 
even my friends. But he is real. | heard him breathe again last night 
and scratch the foot of bed 

I'm really scared of him but | try to be a big boy and not be scared. 

| cannot get up from bed at night. Or he will eat me 


| dunno if | should really be afraid of mr. Underbed. He breathes 
really heavily and scratches the floor often. 
It reminds me of our cat that died. 


Maybe he is sick. 


He wasn't there tonight. 
| listened 
And | even looked down 


But he wasn't there. 


30/4/1990 


The soccer game went really well. My team scored five times, and | 
even did one of the goals. Dad took me for a pizza after the match, 
we got my favourite: pepperoni! 

| really should call that girl, Amanda. People say she likes me, and 
she DID give me her number. 

Things are going pretty well. 


It has been a year now today. 


6/11/1992 


Amanda left me. 

As it turns out she had been cheating on me. 
The whole time. 

What does he have that | don't? A bigger dick? 
What a bitch she was. 

Ugly as hell without makeup anyhow. 

Two whole fucking years wasted, and hundreds of dollars on movie 
tickets and gifts. 

| even stole from Dad. 

Fuck her. 

Just fuck her. 


| woke up 


There is something under my bed 


13/4/1993 


Mom took me to a psychiatrist's place again today. Never should 
have told her about Mr. Underbed, she thinks | have an issue. They 
all think | am crazy. | don't want to throw away the crayons and 
plushies and nightlights. | need them, he is afraid of them. The 
psychiatrist said | just have some sort of mental clinginess to 
childhood or something, but that's not true! | am going to try and 
take a picture of him next night. Maybe then they will believe me. 


2/5/1995 


| really need to get some sleep. | haven't slept properly in... | don't 
even know how long. 

He doesn't leave me alone. When | moved so | could study in 
college, he followed. | had to buy so many nightlights. 

| need to remind myself to buy more crayons too. He shredded a 
bunch of the pages | used to make the circle. The walls need new 
pages too. 

Plushies seem alright, at least. 


17/8/1996 


This just cannot go on. | am a nervous wreck. | had a girlfriend at 
one point, invited her over. She stayed for the night. 

| didn't hear him the whole night. 

And was more afraid than ever. 

It is worse when he is silent. Even when that raspy breath is 
wheezing in my ear it is better. 


Because then at least | know where he is. 
She left the morning after. 
| got a new psychiatrist. The old one didn't help. This one believes 


me. 
They say Mr. Underbed could be something called a tulpa. A figment 


of my imagination, made real. 
If that was so, 


then why doesn't he leave when | don't think of him? 
There were large clawmarks on the ceiling when | woke up today, 


just above my head. 
| think he is getting used to me scaring him with all this junk. 


He is more active at nights than ever. 


| could swear someone was standing over me last night. 


i locked myself in the closet 


he got out 


Recovery log: 


SCP- was recovered in the suburbs of , in an 
apartment flat owned by T . Upon recovery of 
SCP-_ , the remains of T were found in the 


closet. They had seemingly died of sleep deprivation, 
and were found holding a diary. The entries in the diary 
detailed a way of containing the entity known as "Mr. 
Underbed", which is assumed to be SCP-__. Research 
into the notes is ongoing to succesfully contain SCP- 


Unfinished Business 


More recent reports on brain activity suggest that 
SCP-239 is developing a complete resistance to the 
rotation of drugs we’ve used to keep her comatose. This 
could easily result in her reawakening. Since Dr. Clef’s 
nearly successful attempt in 2008, all attempts at 
termination have failed. SCP-239 has resisted all 
practical methods of attack subconsciously, and all other 
methods of destroying reality shifters suggested by the 
G.O.C. envoy have proved fruitless. | am now forced to 
request the O5 for the immediate release of Dr. Alto Clef 
from his current confinement and his immediate 
assignment to this case. 


Dr. Jack Bright 
Foundation Director 


Clef’'s eyes opened slowly, and then shut immediately as the bleary 
light blinded him. He felt cold and naked, his flesh crawling with 
barely remembered frostbite and a decade of immobility. Was he 
awake, now? Was this another of the cold dreams? 


He felt a hand on his wrist—warm, soft, female flesh. His eyes 
opened again, and he blinked hard, staring directly at the large, 
perky breasts. 


“Dr. Clef?” 


Clef's eyes never left her chest. “You have me at a disadvantage, 
Miss...?” 


The woman adjusted her top. “It’s doctor. Doctor Lore.” 


He watched her fumbling modestly. She was lying, he knew. That 
was not her name. Chances are, he’d never know what it really was. 


“What happened?” asked Clef. 


“You’ve been released from cryogenic incarceration,” said Lore, 
handing the naked doctor a towel. “We need your help.” 


“Old problem or new?” asked Clef. 

“Old.” 

“239 or 3432” 

“239.” 

“About time they killed the little brat.” 

“She’s not so little anymore,” Lore said, passing the file to Clef. 
“You just keep reality benders around, Dr. Gears? That seems a 
little foolish, even by the Foundation’s standards.” 


“| can assure you, she is completely under our control, Commandant 
Schmetterling,” replied the shorter, bald man. 


Schmetterling appeared unconvinced by Gears' assurances. Gears 
knew that the Coalition officer was not the happiest envoy the 
Foundation had ever received, especially not since he was informed 
of 239’s continued existence. 


“We thought your operatives had subdued her,” said Schmetterling, 
irritably. “We knew you killed the other one. We saw it from one of 
our observatories. | was under the impression that this one was also 
eliminated.” 


“I’m afraid not,” said Gears, evenly. 


“Well,” said Schmetterling, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to let my 
superiors know that the Foundation has still yet to come to its 
senses.” 


Clef tied the robe around his midsection, not bothering to attempt to 


SCP-983: The Birthday Monkey 


Item #: SCP-983 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-983 is completely safe so 
long as technicians handling it do so on any day other than their 
birthday. Should SCP-983 be presented to or handled by any 
individual on the yearly anniversary of their birth, they should 
immediately follow the sing-along guidelines contained in 
Emergency Kit 135r located next to the door to SCP-983’s 
containment chamber. 


In the event the targeted individual fails to meet sing-along 
requirements, their remains are to be disposed of through standard 
methods. In the event the targeted individual meets the sing-along 
requirements, the following pieces of data are to be collected: Age, 
Color of Candy collected, Singing Accuracy obtained by the best 
judgment of those present, and the number of verses that passed 
before acknowledgment by SCP-983. 


No candy obtained from SCP-983 is to be consumed by any staff 
without senior staff-approved containment procedures in place and 
written waivers filed and stamped by the consumer. This 
requirement is waived in the case of Class-D candy testing. 


Description: SCP-983 is a vintage mechanical monkey with a faded 
date located on the bottom of the left foot, placing its manufacture at 
some point in the 1940s by an unknown person or company. The 
monkey is dressed in the remains of what used to be a popular vest 
design for circus ringmasters. In the monkey’s left hand, there is a 
lightly tarnished brass bell. In the right hand, the monkey holds a 
small brass striking rod. The monkey is capable of emitting speech 
and sound, although examination of the object has revealed no 
seams, screws, or openings that would indicate a method of 
disassembly. 


hide the erection he’d sported since he woke up and saw Lore. 
“Where to now, Sugartits?” 


“I’m to take you to be briefed, Dr. Clef. You'll be meeting with the 
current head of 239’s project.” 


“Karrington?” 


“Dr. Karrington was killed by 239-X in the 2017 attempt. It’s all in the 
report.” 


Clef shrugged and looked around him. For five stories up, elongated 
tubes of glass and cryogenics held the Foundation’s prisoners. 
When he’d been imprisoned, the facility had been a third this size, 
newly implemented for cost purposes. When the O5’s found out it 
was cheaper to freeze them than feed them, dozens of prisoners 
were transported here. 


Clef stopped short, suddenly looking at the familiar faces behind the 
glassy ice. There was Imants, a slight smirk passing over his pale 
face, as if he'd just heard a joke that only he had understood. Next 
to him was Glass, sporting a look of shocked surprise. 


Clef turned to Lore. “What sort of look did | have on while | was 
frozen?” 


“You looked horny,” said Lore impassively. Clef smiled and turned 
back to the tubes.