Narrator 2: He sprinted down the stairs, eagerly grabbing a 
pen and paper with which to write down the address the 
turkey would be spirited off to. He smiled as he did, laughter 
pouring from some place within him that had not seen the light 
of day in quite some time. As he stepped out the front door, 
he made pause at the sight of it. 


Bright: Mann, Mann, Mann. What a beautiful door. I'll 
treasure it so long as | live, what an honest, good door this is 
— ah! And here's the turkey. Hallo. Whoop whoop! How are 
you, sir, Merry Christmas. 


Narrator 5: The chuckle with which he said this, and the 
chuckle with which he paid for the massive turkey, and the 
chuckle with which he paid for a cab to deliver it to old 
Django's humble home, and the chuckle with which he paid 
the sweet little Heiden, were only exceeded in magnitude by 
the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair 
again, and chuckle he did until he cried. 


Bright: | know! | don't need to be kept up in here. It's 
Christmas! I've got to go meet the people where they are! 


BRIGHT puts on his winter best, and struts out onto the 
streets. As he passes people in the street, he greets all witha 
generous smile and a "Merry Christmas". 


Narrator 4: He had not gone far, when he happened upon the 
two Manna Charitable Fellows who had passed by his office 


didn't even notice how much she looked like 
my fourth daughter up until that moment... 


(276 begins to sob) 
Dr. :...276? 


(276 falls to the floor, still sobbing. The guards 
approach and escort 276 out of Site- ) 


<End Log> 
« SCP-775 | SCP-776 | SCP-777 » 


the day before. It sent a pang through his heart knowing what 
these two must have thought of him, but he knew the path lay 
straight ahead of him, and he took it. Quickening his pace, he 
caught up to the two men and took them both by the shoulder. 


Bright: Kind sirs, how do you do. | do hope you succeeded 
yesterday. It was very kind of you, of course. A merry 
Christmas to you, sir. 


Manna Charitable Fellow 1: Dr. Bright. 


Bright: Yes, yes, that is my name, though | fear it may not be 
pleasant to you. Allow me to beg your pardon, sir, and hope 
that you will have the goodness from me... 


He whispered in the man’s ear. 
Manna Charitable Fellow 1: My goodness! 
Manna Charitable Fellow 2: Dr. Bright, are you serious? 


Bright: If you would, please, and not a dollar less. There are 
a great many back-payments included in it, be sure. Will you 
do me that favour? 


Manna Charitable Fellow 1: Sir, | don't know what to say to 
such generosity! 


Bright: Say nothing! Go now, and please, come see me later! 
A merry Christmas to you both! 


Manna Charitable Fellows: Merry Christmas! 


Narrator 1: He wandered the streets then, watching people 
hurrying to and fro, playing with children as they passed, 
making jokes with the labourers, looking into kitchens and 
bakeries, all while skipping as he went. He never dreamed 
that any walk, that anything at all, could give him so much 
happiness. 


Narrator 2: As the afternoon came upon him, he turned his 
steps towards his nephew's home. 


Narrator 3: He must have passed the door a dozen times 
before he had the courage to knock, bless his old monkey 
heart. 


Narrator 5: But knock he did, and who answered but his 
nephew. 


Bright: Ralph. 
Roget: Uncle?! Bless my soul, is it you? 


Bright: It is. It is your uncle Bright. | have come to dinner. Will 
you have me, nephew? 


Narrator 4: Have him? It's a wonder he didn't shake his arm 
off. Bright was in and acquainted in mere minutes, and the 
night was as he had foreseen it. Games were played, drinks 
were had, Strelnikov accidentally shot himself in the foot ("Do 
not worry, is metal foot. Already lose foot to frostbite.") It was 
a wonderful party, and Bright was happy. 


Narrator 1: But he was up and at the office early the next 
morning. Oh, and how he was early. To be there first, to catch 
Django Bridge coming in late! He wanted nothing more. 


Narrator 2: And he did! The clock struck eight, and no 
Django. Ten after, and no Django. It was not until a full 
quarter past the hour that poor old Django came flying in 
through the door, moving to his desk and a pen in one swift 
motion. 


Bright: (Gruffly.) Hello there, Mr. Bridge. What do you think 
you mean, coming by here at this time of day? 


Bridge: I'm so very sorry sir, | am behind. 
Bright: So you are. Step into my office, Bridge. 


Bridge: Please sir, it's only once a year. It won't be repeated, 
| swear. | was making too merry yesterday, sir. 


Bright: This is most unacceptable, Mr. Bridge, and | am not 


going to stand for this any longer. That's why— 


He jumps from his desk, pounces across, and comes eye to 
eye with the sweating Django Bridge. 


Bright: —I am going to raise your salary. 
Bridge: My— wha? You're going to do what? 


Bright: Raise your salary, Django my old friend. Merry 
Christmas to you! A merrier Christmas than | have ever 
afforded you, to my great shame. Yes, I'll be raising your 
salary, and we'll sit down over some drinks tonight and 
discuss how best to assist your struggling family. Now, get 
over there and raise that thermostat, Mr. Bridge! It's chilled to 
the bone in here, let's have some warmth! 


Narrator 1: And Bright was better than his word. He did 
everything, and then some, and to little Tiny Zyn he was like a 
second father. He became as good a man, as good a doctor, 
as good a director, as Site-19, or any site, had ever known. 
Some would laugh to see the change in him, but he let them 
laugh, and did so with them. His spirit was moved, and he 
laughed all the same, and that was enough for him. 


Narrator 5: From that day forth, he had no further dealings 
with spirits (aside from one wild midnight romp with the Ghost 
of Christmas Present several years down the line (but that's a 
tale for a different time)), and it was always said of him that he 
truly knew how to keep Christmas well, if anybody did. May 
that truly be said of us, all of us! And as Tiny Zyn so aptly 
observed; 


Tiny Zyn: God bless us, every— 


Moose: Wow, it's really hot all of a sudden. What's 
happening? 


Bridge: It's coming from outside, what's that sou— Oh my 
god! 


The Hateful Star: (Laughter.) HAHAHAHA! MERRY 


CHRISTMAS YOU FUCKING LOSERS! HAHAHAHAHA! 


Explosion. 


A Small Town in Arizona 


The air was dry, smelling of the unique odor that hot sand and dry 
flora carried from the long, drawn out hours of daylight in the arid 
region. The sun would bleach everything that it touched in the small 
isolated town, where the Arizona local time happened to just be 
striking seven in the evening for its residents. It was dusk now, the 
ending of a day for most and the start for others just as the noisy 
crickets and other such inhabitants came to life. The sky flowed with 
large strokes of dark orange and scarlet red in small amounts, all 
accompanied by the smallest of streaking cirrus clouds. A good 
omen, perhaps. 


The sole sheriff of the sparsely inhabited settlement sat comfortably 
on his porch in a rocking chair, a cold glass of bourbon on the rocks 
in his hand - a gift from an old friend in law enforcement to enjoy a 
pleasant view with before he went to sleep. It was a view he had 
seen thousands of times before, almost memorizing it by now with 
all the time he had, as the town hadn't really needed a sheriff in 
quite a while. The only aspect that ever changed about this view 
were the plants that laid out past the dirt road his house was on. So, 
as the figure of a limping creature came over the horizon, it 
immediately caught the sheriff's eye. 


It didn't move like any wild dog, it didn't /ook like one either as it 
slowly drew closer to the edge of town. It didn't take long before the 
creaking of the porch's old boards emanated as the sheriff stood up 
slowly, calmly put down his glass, grabbed the shotgun at his side 
and quietly strode across the dirt road. With slight puffs of dirt being 
dragged up as he went, he stopped right before the gravel curb as 
he merely watched now, gun lowered with a firm grip. Perhaps it 
was a wild dog or coyote, though if that was the case, he knew the 
whole pack would come along, so he wondered why this one was 
alone. It was only until the creature was about a hundred yards 
away that he started to realize what the animal really was, its limping 
form outlined in the light from the dying day, three legs strode with 


their dark shadows. 


The sheriff's chest tightened in anticipation as the creature moved 
closer, he knew exactly what it was now, but it couldn't be right, it 
wasn't possible for him to conceive it as such. The creature in 
question was a golden retriever, the most friendly dog of a local 
family he'd ever met, but this dog didn't leave home with a quarter of 
their head and their left front leg gone. The missing sections looked 
like they had been cut off without a single sign of tissue tearing, 
most of the lower jaw gone with blood-stained bone exposed on the 
left side. Their tongue hung out the side of the hole with a straight 
slice cut out of it, while their precious coat of fur was matted with a 
dark shade of dried blood near the wounds. They were only five feet 
away before its shaking legs collapsed, a constant and low whine 
coming from it, before that and everything else then decayed into a 
absolute silence. 


Nothing dared to make a sound at that moment. 


It had been less than half an hour since the incident, the sheriff had 
stood in place for a longer time than he might have thought, before 
eventually wrapping the animal in a old tarp from the side of his 
house. Whoever or whatever attacked the dog was in his 
jurisdiction, being the law of the land in this place and all, but acting 
as such wasn't something he'd done in a while. This town was too 
quiet, too peaceful for such occurrences, and besides, he was 
becoming too old to deal with things like this. 


Only after several long minutes of festering thoughts about what 
might have happened out past the horizon did the sheriff move from 
his spot, even then only slowly walking down the beaten dirt road as 
he made his way to the owner's house. Though as he went along 
the road, he shot a pensive glance towards the southern horizon 
multiple times, as if expecting for something else to come forth out 
of the encroaching night. 


His boots tapped lightly against the bleached boards of the porch, 
his pace as casual as one could get after having seen what he had; 
there was no need to cause a stir by running over in a frenzy as no 
doubt there were others watching him. Whether it was from their 


faintly lit front decks or the family room window of their house, this 
should just look like a friendly encounter, neighbour to neighbour. 
With his thumbs under his belt, the tension in the air felt as if it could 
slap him, the faint sound of the old doorbell and the creaking of the 
door only worsening with the palpable aura of the bleak atmosphere. 


He knew the particular family very well, as they were only a block's 
distance apart. He had come over for dinner many times and even 
played fetch with the dog on a mild afternoon every so often 
whenever it wandered over. Though not a mind reader, he was well 
aware about how they usually composed themselves, so when both 
the wife and the husband opened the door almost immediately, he 
knew something was up right then. There was a strong sense of 
expectation in their eyes from the sheriff, almost as if they knew that 
he was coming over, or perhaps they were about to be out the door 
coming to him if he'd arrived a second later. Though after the door 
was open, it didn't take long for them to freak out as the sheriff 
spoke. And it wasn't about the dog's death in any way, it was about 
their daughter who had gone out to get it after it ran off southward, 
away from the town. 


They said that it wasn't out of character for her to sometimes take a 
while, that this was nowhere near her first time, that she was 
probably just staring at the clouds. They continued to say these 
things with different wordings repeatedly like freaked out parents 
would, as if trying to convince themselves. Through their thought 
process they drove on, almost manically as it quickly broke down as 
fast as it tried to start in a endless circle, seeming like they might 
asphyxiate from how fast they were talking. The sheriff might think of 
them as irresponsible parents if it weren't for their familiarity. His gut 
knew that this wasn't their fault, that there was something unholy 
happening around here. 


The sheriff eventually rested his hand on the father's shoulder, 
wishing he had better words, better circumstances for the both of 
them, though the dark reality of it was much more grim than he 
originally thought. Hushed words of reassurance and a promise that 
they would form a search party immediately were given, as best as 
could be done at least. This only helped their outlook by a minuscule 
amount, with the sheriff's soft spoken nature doing little to help. 


The internal sigh of relief that came as they didn't ask to see the 
dog's body helped the sheriff's overall outside composure. If they 
were to figure out how it had truly been killed, there would be 
absolutely no possible way to calculate the severity of their reaction. 
Even then, the incident still rooted itself in the sheriff's own mind 
while he spoke. There was nothing natural about it, it looked artificial 
in every way possible and the idea of it having been the 
supernatural or some crazed, yet medically certified serial killer 
didn't help in the slightest. All these cryptic ideas only helped to 
propagate one question in his collective thoughts. The question of 
what was going to happen when they went out there. 


It only took twenty minutes to round up a party of nine people from 
the town, but now if any of the residents weren't paying attention 
early, they were now. Mothers pulled their children away for a early 
bedtime as their father just had to help the kind sheriff with 
something for the night. This is what they told them as the party 
soon congregated at the town square. Some held varmint rifles and 
shotguns with others toting flashlights and lanterns, though the 
entire group was wary as rumors already spread about the child's 
disappearance. Though in the end, not a single word related to such 
subject was spoken out of a fear of it becoming true. The 
atmosphere was heavy before they departed, the wind carrying a 
slight ferrous smell northward, ebbing past the buildings to spread 
along the entire place. 


All eyes were pointed south into the endless flat terrain ahead of 
them, the time soon approaching twilight with the waning moon 
seeming brighter than ever, the northern star Polaris seeming to 
overflow with its light as well. The quiet march of the party 
immediately gave way to a deep feeling of apprehension about the 
entire situation, there was no use spreading out or investigating 
anything as all could be seen for miles around them, there was no 
yelling or screaming besides the party's own. 


It was only until someone had yelled the child's name only for the 
sound to decay into nothing across the flat ground that they realized, 
there was not a single cricket, not a single hoot or howl from any 
nocturnal animal in the valley. The only definite sounds was a 


monotone howl of the winds coming from where they were going 
which moved the thin wispy leaves of desert plants to create quiet 
natural wind chimes, all while the iron-like smell became more 
noticeable.