"All right, Humbug," said the Goatman, walking through the club and 
apparently talking to himself, "Where is everyone?" 


Hooky is near the bar along with The Lizardman, said the Hum, a 
phantom noise that, at the moment, only he could hear. Sinning 
Jessie is with one of the Gallows Ghosts in one of the booths. And 
the King of Knives is... 


"Boo." The Goatman spun around to face a man wearing a rather 
nasty Chelsea grin, revealing decaying teeth, his body adorned with 
several bandoliers and knives, all spattered in blood. The King of 
Knives had been the favored boogieman in Sloth's Pit since the 
1890's, when the murderer Joseph Macek was hung. The King was 
the Legend of Macek given form, and would slaughter children in 
their sleep if they were naughty. He was now largely a campfire 
story, like most of the Legends of Sloth's Pit. 


"Hello, Joseph. Staying out of trouble, | hope?" The Goatman 
continued chewing on his pipe; like everywhere else in this town 
nowadays, the Eight Rings was non-smoking, excepting a room in 
the back. 


"Yes, yes, yes. Ol' Joe is behavin'. Not killed in a while." He nodded 
furiously, and took the Goatman's arm. "Comeon. Sebastian and 


Lovebird are waitin." He dragged the Goatman over to the bar. 


"Hey, Goats!" Sebastian, the Hook-handed man, raised his stump of 
a hand towards him; said stump was currently covered by a fake 
pirate hook. "I read about you in the papers a few months back! | 


thought the Plastic Fanatics woulda caught ya for sure!" 


The Goatman snorted. "The Fanatics couldn't catch a Hodag with its 
feet tied in an empty room." He pulled himself up the the bar, sitting 
next to Lovebird, one of the few lizardmen that still inhabited this 
town. "How're you holding up, then, L.B.?" 


"It'sssss difficult," hissed the reptile being. "Jussst look at me. | look 
more man than lizard now." And indeed, he did; he looked like a 
human that was simply covered in scales, as if he had some kind of 
bizarre medical condition or was wearing full-body makeup that 
made it look like he had one. 


"How many are here?" asked Macek, toying with one of his rather 
anachronistic combat knives, which earned him a look of disdain 
from Dracula the Bartender. "All of us is four..." 


"Jessie and one of the ghosts are here, according to Humbug," the 
Goatman pointed at thin air. "So that's six. The Hum makes 
seven..." He frowned. "We need one more." 


"Where are we going to get one more?" asked Sebastian, fiddling 
with his hook. "Eight of us have to dance, and last | checked, the 
only viable candidate is the Melonheads. They aren't allowed in 
because they look like kids!" 


"They're older than me," grumbled the Goatman, with an almost 
bitter note to his voice. "We'll worry about it in a bit. For now... I'm 
thirsty. Bartender, a mojito please." Dracula the Bartender didn't 
even bother to card the Goatman, and mixed him the drink. 


We could always ask Mary, chimed the Hum, which caused all the 
assembled legends to groan. What? She's one of us. 


"Bloody Mary is not an option," Sebastian stated firmly, tapping his 
hook against the bar. "Unless you're talking about the drink, in which 
case, I'm all for it." 


Lovebird nodded in assent. "Sssshe tried to break into one of the 
sssschools in town. Sssssome dumb third grader sssssaid her name 
in the bathroom." 


[REDACTED] by Foundation researcher Dr. . Upon noting 
the anomalous details documented within, Dr. brought the 
objects into Foundation custody, where it has since been contained. 


The following inscription is also visible on the front of SCP-733-02: 


Diary 


Addendum 733-01: Record of Notable Images and Text in 
SCP-733-02 


Subject: Photograph #3, Text Fragment #11 

Page(s): 2 

Description: A photograph of a blanket spread out on a grassy hill, 
with a picnic basket on top. Depressions in the blanket are 
consistent with that of a person sitting on the blanket, but no one is 
visible. "The first time | saw you, you were like the rising sun, 
banishing the chill of loneliness with your radiant beauty." - Subject 
A 


Subject: Photograph #7, Text Fragment #26 

Page(s): 13 

Description: A photograph of a table in a crowded restaurant. A 
well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman is seen conversing and/or 
laughing with an empty seat next to him. "Even my father dotes 
upon you! | have not seen him laugh so heartily in years." - Subject 
A 


Subject: Photograph #11, Text Fragment #49 

Page(s): 18, 19 

Description: A photograph of a wedding chapel. Shadow patterns 
indicate a woman in a dress should be within the frame of the 
picture, but no such woman is visible. "When | saw you walking 
down the aisle, you took my breath away. | have never been so 
happy as on that day." - Subject A 


Subject: Photograph #26, Text Fragment #93 

Page(s): 51 

Description: A cradle containing a newborn infant, propped up next 
to an empty chair. "Our daughter Agatha. The fruit of our love." - 


"Really?" said the Goatman, looking up from his drink. "What 
happened?" 


"The Fanaticssss had to be called in," said Lovebird. "A kid wasss 
maimed, but they're all right now. Mary'sss back in the mirrors." The 
lizard shook his head. "Sssso, no. Mary is a last resssort, at bessst. 
We ssstill have a while until midnight, anyway..." 


The shadow in the alley could be the King of Knives 
about to jump out at you just as easily as it could be a 
stray cat. The people in the town's square in period garb 
could be real, or they could be one of the several 
Gallows Ghosts. Is that really the TV you heard in the 
bathroom, or was Bloody Mary whispering at you to let 
her out of your mirror? 


The Goatman eventually wandered away from the bar, over to the 
booth where Jessie and the Ghost were. The ghost, he saw, was 
that of a woman, probably hung for theft; she waved at the Goatman 
silently, getting up to join the rest of the Legends at the bar. He sat 
down next to Sinning- or was it Singing?- Jessie. "Jessica." 


"Capricorn." The Goatman frowned; he really did hate that 
nickname. "How goes it?" Jessie sounded almost... bitter. The 
Goatman couldn't blame her; having your legend decay was a 
painful experience. 


"It goes, it goes." He shook his head. "Humbug told me about your... 
dilemma. You have my condolences." 


Jessie turned away, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. She was 
supposed to be wearing a costume that made her look like a lady of 
the night circa 1880 or so, but now, she looked... bland. She was 
wearing a costume that made her look like a simple, generic ghost; 
blood around the mouth, a tattered wedding dress, and hair that 
looked like it was billowing in the breeze. 


"Singing Jessie. Singing." She sniffed. "I'm not a god-damn 
banshee, Goats. That's what they're reimagining me as, you know. 


A forebearer of death. | used to be the fear of sex itself; bed me and 
you would get your dick eaten." She rubbed her face. "Now I'm just 

another spook in the night." The Goatman put a comforting hand on 
her shoulder. 


"Legends change, Jessica. You, Joseph and Sebastian should 
consider yourselves lucky; at least you still have your stories told." 


Jessica sighed, rubbing an eye."| want my old legend back. 
Sebastian is at least published, and Macek is based on an actual 
person. Me? I'm a story conjured up try and get people to stop 
buying sex." She leaned against the Goatman and sighed 
dramatically. "| just hope | remember when | was like that after... 
after I've changed." 


"Jessica... | truly am sorry." He awkwardly wrapped his arms around 
Jessica in a hug, which she returned, before pulling away. "...have 
you picked out a dance partner for tonight?" 


At midnight on Halloween, the monsters of the town 
assemble at the Grove of the Eight Rings and each 
stand in one of the rings. Then, they start their dance. 
They say you can find them all dancing in peace in the 
grove, their differences forgotten. If a human is to enter 
the grove, then they will be freely admitted into the 
dance, and awake in the middle of the woods, reborn as 
a monster. 


"For the last time," said the Goatman to the Hum, "we are not calling 
Bloody Mary." The Goatman had withdrawn into the bathroom of the 
Eight Rings, which was empty except for the "werewolf" in the 
corner, who was probably tripping balls. 


It'll even it out, though, mumbled the Hum. /'m genderless, Jessica 
and the Ghost are both women... and the dance starts in 15 
minutes! We dont have a choice. 


"What about the werefrogs?" asked the Goatman. "Or-or the Queen 
of the Hoop Snakes? She's in town, right?" 


Left yesterday, sighed the Hum. Come on. I'll get rid of the day 
tripper over there, and you call her. With that, the Hum started 
talking to the fake werewolf, and the Goatman shut off the lights in 
the bathroom, looking in one of the cracked mirrors. 


"Bloody Mary," he intoned once. "Bloody Mary." Twice. "Bloody 
Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary!" A ghost leaped from the mirror, 
screaming at the Goatman, all covered in dripping blood, her hair 
ragged and ruffled. She couldn't have been more than 16 when she 
died in front of her mirror, but here she was... Bloody Mary 
Thompson. 


"Oh ho ho. The Goatman of Sloth's Pit." Bloody Mary stepped out of 
the mirror and onto the tile floor, grinning. "What is it you want, 
hmm? Do you finally want to overthrow the influence of the Plasti-" 


"The Dance is tonight, Mary." The Goatman stamped his hoof. "We 
need an eighth. You're the only one we can contact. So cut the 
spooky nonsense for one night and dance." 


The ghostly girl grinned. "Very well then. For the sake of your silly 
tradition, | shall dance. Tell me, whom will | be dancing with?" 


The Goatman thought for a moment, before deciding. 


"The King of Knives is in need of a partner. | daresay the two of you 
suit each other quite well. Just... don't get any blood on the dance 
floor." As he said this, Bloody Mary seemed to transform; she was 
now wearing a bright red witch's outfit, complete with stereotypical 
hat and a broomstick. "...what an appropriate choice... but | would 
replace the "w" with a "b"." 


Bloody Mary stuck her tongue out at him. "Happy Halloween, 
Goatman." She cackled, and walked out of the restroom, the 
Goatman following after. 


The monsters dance their dance until dawn. Nobody 
knows why the monsters and myths dance, only the 
monsters know. It happens every year; maybe you, too, 
will see the Monsters dance in the woods of Wisconsin. 


It was midnight. The DJ, who had dressed himself to look like a 
zombie, put on Danse Macabre. It was a cliche song choice, but 
rather appropriate. With that, as with every year, the dance floor 
cleared. Nobody knew why the dance floor was cleared at midnight, 
and why only seven people were ever on it during this time; it was 
just club tradition. 


Seven people that were visible, and an eighth that wasn't but was 
omnipresent, partnered up and began waltzing. The witch with the 
psychopath, the goat with the girl, the hook-handed man with the 
ghost, and the lizard man seemingly danced alone. Halfway through 
the song, they began speaking. 


"Now we dance the dance of tales," said the males, looking at their 
partners, or in Lovebird's case, at thin air. 


"So we may be told again," replied the females, as well as the hum, 
who was audible to all. The newcomers in the audience looked 
around, confused at the origin of the humming voice. 


"For our beings to survive..." 
"Our stories must never end." 
"Wonder-born by word of mouth-" 
"As the ageless stars do soar-" 
"May you stand the tides of time-" 


"And remain forevermore," said all of the Legends in unison, turning 
towards the entrance of the Eight Rings. The raised their hands, 
hooked their arms, and exited with their partners in a precession, the 
audience applauding, some of them confused. 


Outside the club, the Legends all looked at each other, and bowed. 
Bloody Mary, her purpose spent, disappeared to the space behind 
mirrors from whence she came. Sebastian, the Hook-handed man, 
and Joseph, King of Knives, went off into the woods. The Goatman 
walked with Sinning/Singing Jessie, while Lovebird the Lizardman 

dove into the sewer grate near the nightclub. The Gallows Ghost 


simply vanished, while the Hum kept humming. 


"Capricorn," Jessica looked at the Goatman. "Do you think the 
dance really does anything?" 


"| don't know," the Goatman admitted. "My father always said that 
the dance was vital to our survival. He did it every year with some of 
the other Legends that were around back then. Just like grandad did 
before him." He shook his head mournfully, and then looked at 
Jessie, a smile crossing his face. "It at least raises morale. | mean, 
just look at yourself." 


Sinning Jessie looked down at her clothing; they had gone from 
being tattered, ethereal rags to a rather scandalous dress. Well, 
scandalous if you lived back in the 1800s. Bright red, with a purple 
sash around the middle, and a corset visible underneath the 
ensemble. She gasped. "...how long will it last?" 


The Goatman shrugged. "Probably a night or two. Enjoy it the best 
you can." He shook his head, patting Jessica on the shoulder. 
"Happy Halloween, Sinning Jessie." 


"Happy Halloween to you, Goatman." The Goatman turned, lighting 
his pipe and walking off into the woods. 


"See you next year?" 


"Sooner, if | can help it!" The Goatman disappeared into the 
darkness of the morning of All Hallow's Day. 


|Hub| 


Four Seconds, Low Pitched 


An extended siren for fifteen seconds meant fire. A continuous siren 
meant evacuation. Three short sirens meant a lock down, and two 
short sirens followed by an extended siren was a bomb threat. 
Beyond that, things started getting complicated. 


Allin all, Jackson Sloth Memorial High School had sixty-seven 
unique siren codes for different types of emergencies, ranging from 
a low-pitched four second siren for a rain of live fish, to a medium- 
pitched three-and-a-half second siren for a rain of dead fish. The 
first nine days of each semester were dedicated entirely to 
emergency drills, and a siren-worthy event occurred an average of 
three times every two weeks. Their rival school, Sloth's Pit Senior 
High School, had a lower emergency rate, but a higher ratio of 
students with an Omega-3 deficiency. 


Today, no sirens were ringing. For sixteen year old Adam Snerling, 
this was the greatest emergency of all. Adam blinked sweat from his 
eyes and stared hopelessly at a calculus exam he couldn't begin to 
comprehend. Indexes and coefficients rode squiggly lines up and 
down the page, threatening to spill out onto the desk and dance 
around the room. Adam looked up from the paper. Most of the class 
seemed to be trapped in the same state of horrified incapability as 
him. Three tables over, Adam's friend Utkarsh was scribbling 
frantically. Fifteen minutes into the test, it didn't seem so funny 
anymore. Adam eyed the teacher at the front of the room warily, 
gauging his chances for a successful peek at the paper in front of 
him. No dice. Tenure at JSMH had honed Ms Burton's reflexes to an 
almost precognitive level. She was staring directly at Adam, with the 
intensity of an electric vulture. Adam swallowed and looked back to 
the clock. Somehow another five desperate, silent minutes had gone 
by already. Twenty minutes spent on the first question, and his only 
thought was that x was probably in there somewhere. Resigned to 
failure, his eyes flickered listlessly around the room. The open door 
with its view of a beautiful not-flooded hallway; the open windows 


with their view of a beautiful fishless sky; other things that were 
neither the test or a means of escape; and the frustratingly silent 
sirens, which had begun to sprout hair. 


YeSSSSSSSSSSS.