It sprung up and caught her hand, her knife dropping to the tiled 
floor and cracking the linoleum. It dug its finger deep under her skin, 
and she felt her blood start to flow from her body. "SHIT! SHIT SHIT 
SHIT! PARTRIDGE!" 


"| got it!" Partridge threw the rice all over the sink, and the vampire. 
lts fingers pulled from Sinclair's skin, leaving no marks, and it began 


SCP-813: Glass Shard 


Item #: SCP-813 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-813 is housed at Site-117 
and contained in a 2m cubic steel crate filled with an industrial foam. 
SCP-813 must be encased within this foam at all times and must not 
come into direct contact with the interior walls of the container. The 
crate is suspended by industrial-grade elastic supports and is not 
permitted within 3m of any surface. 


Hosts of SCP-813-1 are to be held in separate standard humanoid 
containment cells. Each instance of SCP-813-1 should be removed 
from its host as quickly as reasonable. For information on surgical 
procedures necessary to SCP-813-1 removal, see Document-813-1. 
After removal, each instance will be contained in separate airtight 
steel canisters (1cm x 0.5cm 0.5cm). In the event that an SCP-813-1 
host expires, or an instance(s) of SCP-813-1 itself is unaccounted 
for, the immediate area must enter lock-down and a search will be 
organized for the instance(s) in question. All personnel handling 
SCP-813-1 instances or hosts are to wear reinforced glass face 
shields. Any containment personnel experiencing optical distress or 
anomalies must be evaluated immediately. 


SCP-813 is not to be located within 10km of SCP-882 or any artifact 
with a connection to the Church of the Broken God. 


Description: SCP-813 is a spherical glass sculpture. Evidence 
suggests that the sculpture was originally 45cm in diameter; 
however, the artifact is currently missing approximately 17% of its 
initial mass. Close inspection of SCP-813 has revealed a 
microscopic system of seemingly metallic clockwork machinery. This 
machinery is continuously active, though the means by which it 
accumulates or generates power is unclear. The properties of the 
artifact (see below) have prevented more extensive inspection of the 


to pick at each grain of rice individually. 


Sinclair stood, woozy, looking at herself. She was pale; barely two 
seconds of contact had drained her of about half a pint of blood. 
Survivable, but it still hurt. "We gotta kill it— no, | do." She 
swallowed, stepping forward. 


"What do you have in mind?" Partridge kept his rifle trained on it. 
The vampire kept counting. 


"It's got some of my blood in it already. It's got part of me inside of it, 
and that means | have power over it." She clenched her hand into a 
fist, and it started glowing a dark, ominous shade of red. "Blood 
magic is tricky. Only three people in the Foundation know how to do 
it without going batshit crazy over it. I'm one of them." 


"How do you not give in?" 


"Let's just say | have a Roundabout way of doing it." She took a 
deep breath, and as the vampire was counting, pulled her fist back, 
and let out a cry of "Blood Red... Hamon... Overdrive!" 


It was stupid, but it worked. She felt her fist contact, and she felt her 
blood, not yet fully mixed with the vampire's, in its body. The punch 
forced all of the blood into one place, through its heart, and then the 
magic decided to give it back to Katherine Sinclair, untainted by 
vampyrism. She felt the blood flow into her body, and sighed as the 
vampire went lifeless. 


Partridge stared at her. "I'm going to assume that that was some 
form of incantation, and that you are not, in the common parlance, a 
complete and utter nerd." 


"You can't work at the biggest scientific research organization on the 
planet without being a bit of a nerd, Partridge," She rolled her 
shoulders and sighed, feeling blood return to her system. "Damn 
that's refreshing—" she blinked. "Shit, where are his keys?" 


They heard a rattling sound from the sink, and looked just in time to 
see a Set of car keys, thrown from the vampire's hands in death, slip 
past the pumpkin in the plant-gut-soaked sink and vanish down the 


garbage disposal. 


"Your time in Guatemala," Sinclair hoped, "Wouldn't happen to have 
taught you how to plumb, would it?" 


Even a botanist, it seemed, could work their way around a pipe 
wrench. It was a long, painful job, but the pipe was eventually 
undone, and the keys recovered. Sinclair and Hastings took the bed 
of the truck, while Partridge drove and Carraso slept off a 
concussion. 


"This town's gone crazy," Partridge muttered to himself front the 
front of the truck. "Hastings?" 


"I'm here, doc," He said. 
"| think that my theory was correct." 
"Wait, what theory?" Sinclair frowned. "You've been doing theories?" 


"Long story short," Partridge informed her, "There's a documented 
anomaly in town, one that Site-87's not cleared to know about. 
Something beyond E-Class weirdness." 


"Holy shit. Well, Hennessy's reasonable. She'll probably have files 
on the location." 


"Let's talk to her tomorrow," Hastings panted. "| need a drink." 
"| concur." He paused, turning onto main street. "Sinclair?" 
"Yes?" 


"After this has blown over... would you mind seeing if you could 
invite me to a game night? I've always wanted to learn Dungeons 
and Dragons." 


"Sure thing, sir." She smiled, and looked east, as S & C Plastics 
showed itself over the hill. 


The omnipresent twilight, eventually, faded into night. The stars 


declined to show themselves, hiding behind dark autumn clouds. 


«Chapter 3| Black Autumn Hub | Chapter 5» 


Following The Leylines 


Timecode: 10/22/2017 23:49 


Chad Darryl: The United States of America is the 
strangest country in the world. It's full of cryptids, ghosts, 
aliens, and the government covers it all up. But we know 
something they don't. 


Chad Darryl: Throughout the USA, there are invisible 
lines of energy flowing through space, linking locations 
full of strange activity. We make it our job to route a 
course along these energy flows, and document 
everything we find. We are... 


[Title Card Appears] 
Chad Darryl: Following the Leylines. 


[Title Jingle, cut to inside of a van. Four individuals are 
present: Chad Darryl, Caucasian, age 33, host of 
Following the Leylines; Monica Morse, African-American, 
age 29, self-proclaimed spiritual medium; Quincy Lee, 
Chinese-American, age 33, equipment manager. The 
driver is Markus Bradley, Caucasian, Age 28.] 


Darryl: (Addressing the camera) Today, we've got a 
treat for you, true believers. We've got a live show, 
broadcasting on Twitch, for our Halloween special. For 
months, dozens of leylines have been pointing us in one 
direction. 


[The Camera pans over a map of the state of Wisconsin, 
with a large, red circle scribbled around an area in the 
North-Western most part of the state] 


Darryl: Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. A remote town smack on 


the border with Minnesota, it's said to be the origin of 
dozens of urban legends. They say that the original 
Hook-Handed Man originated from here, and that it's one 
of the most haunted places in the USA. 


Lee: I'll believe that when | see it. Nothing can be worse 
than Ohio U. 


Darryl: Maybe. Monica, what do you think? 


Morse: It's... almost overwhelming. Hundreds— no, 
thousands of leylines converge here. It's a hotbed of all 
sorts of bizarre things. | see spirits, pumpkins, and... 
death. | feel a strong aura of death. [Morse swallows 
audibly.] This may have been a mistake. 


[The van begins slowing down, before stopping. Muffled 
speech is heard outside.] 


Darryl: What th— Mark, why'd you stop? 


Bradley: There's a roadblock ahead. Bunch of people in 
jackets. I... wait, what's FEMA doing out here? 


Darryl: You're kidding. [To Lee] Switch to the dash cam, 
now. 


[Camera angle switches to a view from a camera behind 
a windshield. Outside, several men and women in black 
jackets with the letters "FEMA" printed on the back, with 
the insignia of the Federal Emergency Management 
Agency on their lapels. One of these individuals, a man 
with brown hair, approaches the van.] 


FEMA Agent 1: Sir, I'm going to need you to turn 
around. 


Bradley: What's going— 


Darryl: Hold on, I'll do the talking. We're just trying to get 
into town, sir. 


FEMA Agent 1: You can't. Town's under quarantine. 
Massive chemical spill from the plastics plant. 


Darryl: What? There's nothing on the news about it. 
We're filming our Halloween special here. 


FEMA Agent 1: Can't help you there. Duluth has a pretty 
cool haunted house, try there. 


[The dash cam changes angle to view the FEMA Agent's 
face.] 


Darryl: Look, it took us weeks to get permits to film here. 
Why a rinky-dink town is so protective of film rights is 
beyond me. We need to get through. 


[A female voice is heard, muffled by the windshield] 
FEMA Agent 1: What? 


FEMA Agent 2: They have a fucking dash cam on you! | 
saw the douchebag turn it. 


FEMA Agent 1: Ah, hell. All right, out of the vehicle, 
everyone. 


Lee: It's within our rights to film a federal official. 


FEMA Agent 1: I'm going to say this again. Out of the 
vehicle, now, and we'll let you go free. Otherwise, you're 
under arrest. 


Bradley: FEMA agents can't do that. 
FEMA Agent 1: What? 


Darryl: | filmed in New Orleans after Katrina. FEMA 
Agents don't have the legal right to arrest US Citizens. 
Who the hell are you? 


FEMA Agent 1: Oh, fuck this. [All FEMA agents draw 
firearms.] Out of the van, now. 


Bradley: H-holy shit. What the fuck? 


FEMA Agent 1: Everyone out now! Under the Whitman- 
Ross Act of 1960, you are all under arrest. 


[A low rumbling is heard on the footage. Camera footage 
is filled with digital noise for several seconds, after which 
several scarecrows appear, surrounding the 'FEMA' 
agents.] 


FEMA Agent 3: What the fuck?! 
Darryl: Floor it. 

Bradley: What? 

Darryl: Fucking floor it! NOW! 
Bradley: Holy shit—- 


[The Van suddenly accelerates, knocking over the dash 
cam. The sounds of gunfire are heard, along with several 
screams and a splintering of wood as the van breaks 
through the barricade. Signal is lost.] 


Timecode: 10/23/2017, 00:09 


[Signal resumes. Footage is shown from an infra-red 
night vision camera; Darryl is operating it. He appears to 
be in a wooded area. The van is visible, and there are 
sounds of a hushed argument. Darryl attempts to shush 
them.] 


Darryl: Hey, true believers. We, uh. We managed to get 
away from the.... so-called FEMA guys. Faux-ma? 
[Darryl covers his mouth and gasps.] This is crazy. We 
actually got shot at, this was not a stunt. | swear to god. 


Lee: Show them the tires. 


Darryl: Right, shit, okay. [Darryl focuses the camera on 
the rear left tire of the van; puncture marks are visible. 


Darryl digs their finger into the puncture, and produces 
what appears to be a bullet.| 


Morse: This is f-f-fucked up. Those... scarecrows, that 
just... just came out of the ground. They felt... so evil. 
[Morse bends over, retching.] 


Darryl: All right, we just... [Darryl points its camera at a 
series of lights in the distance] That's the town. We just 
need to get there, and find somewhere to hide. Act 
natural. 


Bradley: Chad, what the hell? They said the town was 
under quarantine! We should just go back and surrender 
ourselves— 


Darryl: Fuck that, we're broadcasting live to five- 
hundred-thousand people. Something's going on here 
that's worth shooting people over, and we're gonna 
capture it! 


[Lee enters the shot, carrying four head-mounted 
cameras] 


Lee: At least put these on. They're bad image quality, 
but they're easier to carry as opposed to lugging that 
monster around. [indicating the camera Darryl is holding] 


Darryl: Okay, yeah. [Addressing the lens] I'm going to 
turn this off, now. We're gonna be broadcasting from 
GoPros from now on. I'll be Camera 1, Monica will be 
Camera 2, Quincy will be Camera 3, and Mark— Mark? 
[Darryl swings the camera around. Markus Bradley is not 
present in the shot. Analysis of the footage shows a 
figure approximately two-hundred meters away, hanging 
from a tree. Darryl does not appear to notice this.] What 
the fuck? Mark? Where are you? 


Lee: C-cameras on. If we die, we need to capture this. 


Morse: Great, we're going to be the world's first live 


snuff film. [Darryl, Lee and Morse all put on the wearable 
cameras. ] 


Darryl: Nobody's dying tonight. | promise. We just gotta 
stay quiet. Quincy you got— 


[Camera feed abruptly disconnects] 


Time Code: 10/24/2017, 00:20 

[Connection reestablished. Only Camera 2, Monica 
Morse, is currently active. Darryl is visible in front of her, 
crouched against a wall. The camera briefly pans up to a 
street sign, indicating that they are at the corner of Main 
St. and Hodag Lane. Lee is heard behind her, panting 
loudly. ] 


Morse: Wait, | think my camera's finally working. 


Lee: Must have found a wi-fi hotspot that's unsecured; 
looks like we're near some kind of coffee shop. Chad, 
what do you see? 


Darryl: ...nothing. Lights are on everywhere, but... 
nobody's home. | don't think we've even seen any cars 
on the street. 


[Morse pushes forward, and views Main Street. A semi- 
translucent humanoid figure walks before the camera, 
which fills with digital noise. The body language of the 
figure indicates a reluctance to move forward.] 


Morse: What the fuck? 
Darryl: O-oh my god. Th-that looks almost corporeal. 


[The figure appears to walk up a set of stairs, before 
standing in mid-air for several seconds. It suddenly 
drops, going limp, hanging in mid-air for approximately 
ten seconds, and vanishing with a burst of digital noise.] 


Morse: O-o-oh my god. 


Darryl: Think it'll show up on the video? 


Lee: Wait, hold on. People are talking. Moni, let me see 
your headset. | want to boost the gain on your mic. 


[Morse removes her camera and hands it to Lee. Several 
seconds of shuffling are heard, before sounds recorded 
through the microphone appear to be much louder] 


Unidentified Female: You're kidding. How many got 
through the roadblock? 


Unidentified Male: Four, in a van. Some ghost-hunting 
show. Last thing we need. People showing up as 
scarecrows, farmers turning into vampires, researchers 
disappearing— 


Unidentified Female: Wait, ghost hunting show? What 
was it called? 


Unidentified Male: Following the... something. 
Landlines? You watch that stuff, Ruby, you should know. 


"Ruby": Following the Leylines! Shit. They do fucking 
live Halloween specials every year. They might be 
broadcasting now! 


Unidentified Male: Fuck me. Sigma-10 Command, this 
is Agent Blake Williams. We have cause to believe that 
the trespassers are broadcasting live. We need 
immediate scrubbing procedures. Call Cover-Ops. 


Morse: Cover-Ops? What the fuck? 
[Several lights down Main Street begin turning off.] 


Darryl: This is big, holy shit. The entire town's a 
smokescreen. This is, like. Beyond Area-51. Wait, wh- 
why are the lights going out? 


Lee: Shit, they're killing the power. We won't have an 
outgoing signal— 


machinery, and spectroscopic analysis has proven inconclusive. 


The glass comprising SCP-813 is exceptionally fragile and will 
shatter under pressure far below what would be expected. SCP-813 
always fractures into fragments approximately 7mm x 2mm in size; 
these pieces cannot be broken down further by any means, 
rendering them presently indestructible. Upon shattering, all 
fragments (now designated SCP-813-1) produced will seek out the 
nearest human targets!. SCP-813-1 are capable of propelling 
themselves through unknown means, allowing them to "leap" at 
velocities up to 131kph.