"Is it wrong for a man of the times to fall in line with what's 
considered 'good' and 'right'? Anyone thinking about the blacks or 
the Asians as potential friends was a ‘degenerate’. So what if little 
baby boy came out with eyes just a bit too slender for his own good? 
Is it wrong for a man of the times to fall in line with what's 
considered 'good' and 'right' when his pure white wife turned out to 
be not quite all white? She was bein’ all sexy-fine, but that little baby 
boy was venom by his mere presence. 


"The poor baby boy. No—the poor man of the times. The little baby 
boy gets to rest forevermore; the man of the times has a little 
skeleton to hide. But with his pure white wife bein’ all sexy-fine, how 


could the man of the times tear his pretty white life asunder because 
of a little white lie? So instead out popped two little girlies, 
redheaded and white. The ultimate guarantee of purity for a man of 
the times. Surely that poor little baby boy had been a fluke; maybe 
his pure white wife, bein’ all sexy-fine, had had a man a little lower 
down on the rungs of the food chain. 


"Beginning again, the man of the times and his pure white wife built 
a happy little home for their two little girlies, redheaded and white, 
atop a poor little grave to be forgotten forevermore. The man of the 
times and his pure white wife made sure their two little girlies, 
redheaded and white, grew up knowing their place in the world. It 
was a man's world, yes, but so long as you were white, even a little 
girlie could become leader of the whole white world. 


"Of course, as long as she was white. 


"The man of the time crossed over the line when the poor little baby 
boy's poor little grave came to light. Buried under locke and key, the 
man of the time forgot his crime and moved his little family to a new 
home, leaving his past behind to be dug up by the next man looking 
to carve out a piece of the Earth for a bit of aquatic luxury for his 
own little household. 


"End result, the man of the time sees the truth of his time—children 
are children, no matter how non-white. A despicable crime, for which 
the man of the time would never see the light of day again. No 
matter how pure and white his intentions, the blood he shed would 
spell his end. 


"The pure white wife and the two little girlies now face some shit 
ahead. For it turns out the world they live in may not be so loving as 
the man of the time; they may not fit. But the man of the time parted 
ways with his little family with a precious gift—a little white lie. A little 
white lie which tarnished the pure white wife but left the two little 
girlies still redheaded and white. 


"Game gets played and the new truth is set in stone, better than the 
old; these two little girlies are innocent of their parents’ crime. Off to 
daddy's daddy they go, where one little girly learns what's what with 
the world, and the other little girly has old soldier grandpappy's 


stories to keep her eyes shut and her mind sweet and white. 


"Is that it? You might be asking. What little family hasn't had a 
problem or two, lost a man of the time or a pure white wife, or seen 
the little girlies go through rough times until they get to thrive in 
adulthood? The kiddies at school had eyes sharper than the law, 
they saw subhuman mongrels, no matter how redheaded and white 
the two little girlies could be. They kicked and bit them, beat them 
and whipped them. 


"Over time, the two little girlies started drifting apart. The kicks got 
harder, the torment went past the freckled-white skin, and no legal 
games could change the fact that no matter how bright the eyes, 
fiery the Lockes, or numerous the freckles, the two little girlies just 
weren't white enough. One of the two little girlies fell in line, falling 
hard for a North Georgia boy and renouncing her own blood. The 
other little girlie stood fast and firm, as the torture escalated. Pins in 
her seat, animal carcasses in her bags, pain and abuse and 
humiliation! How much lower can you degrade a person? they 
asked. Much, much lower, they reached. You would simply not 
believe. 


"Now the story became too much for one of the little girlies. Whom 
among us wouldn't tell a story such as this—a little white lie to hide 
their shame? The two little girlies weren't white, 'One drop is all it 
takes’, said the President on the campaign. One drop of non-white 
blood, a subhuman mongrel makes. The little girly sees and hears it 
all, and knows that 'Us vs. Them' actually means 'Them vs. Us.’ 


"No more! the other little girly says to her sister! "Shut up and leave 
me alone!" She won't listen. She's ready to become a pure white 
wife, bein' sexy-fine like her momma with a fine man of the times 
from North Georgia. The split occurs, and the little girlies, redheaded 
and white, part ways in life. The white one went off to follow the old 
soldier grandpappy's dreams, and now hides behind the little white 
lie. Another brick in the wall. 


"Fine and dandy.’ the mongrel one says. 'Go forth and be happy, 
become one with society, dearest Priss, you and your precious 
North Georgia boy,’ 


"Oh, what's that? The great white horde cannot forgive, and the 
great white horde will not abide! "We tolerate you in our pure white 
society because you look white, but now you're going too far." You 
need to pay the price and obey the law! 


"The price is your womanhood, Dearest Prissy. Your love would 
never bear fruit. But The North Georgia boy... he couldn't stand 
what you'd done! He refused to be with you! And off he went, to find 
someone more precious to bear him fruit. You cried for weeks, you 
didn't want to live anymore, little Prissy, and | was there for you, to 
save you from yourself. | knew then what the value of our little white 
lies really were. 


"Horrors... That's what | saw when | opened my eyes. Look to the 
lands beyond our borders and see the heaps of subhuman mongrel 
bodies used to prop us up; United States of Western Civilization! 
Greatest in the world! 


"No more little white lies,’ no more falling in line, no more being a 
woman of the time. Right and wrong are not majority rule. The truth 
has power of its own, but the voice of the people is what it needs to 
truly thrive." 


« Rigged from the Start | Voice of Decay | Rot » 
Anabasis Hub 


Tales W 


Wade Williams Distribution Presents: 


When | was born, | screamed. 


And my mother proclaimed it the best sound ever uttered by any 
being 
A thrill of terror 
Echoing stereoscopic 3D howling to the void in sheer horror and joy 
at my own existence 
The sphere rotating forever in and of itself 
Because itself 


And the heavens screamed with me. 
And | sat and rejoiced in it 


Like the roller coaster lifting up and swooping around and around 
the bend 
And the fly of cotton candy and popcorn following the cars' wake 
The thrill of pleasureterror filled every atom of my body and the void 
Howling to the void 
Like a billion bubble machine 


As | grew up, | traveled the cosmos seeking fear. 
Seeking to inspire it and fill others with what had filled me 
A wild thing | was 
Proud and strong 
Until one day | found a place 
And that place was everything at once happening all at once, 
| extruded my body to greet each and every place within that place. 
| became a part of the fabric, part of everything's soul. 
And when | was there again, many times older than before, | found 
so much of it 
Raw and animal 
Patterns screaming to the void like | had once done. 


Then the priestess Shamhat found me there at the Drive-In Theatre. 


And she opened her legs to me and | found myself drawn towards 
some unknowable thing 
Some horrible end. 
We made love together without stopping for six days and seven 
nights 
And at the end of it | found | was not the thing | had been before 
And | was afraid of it 


Then the hero Beowulf found me sitting there 
Naked and covered from top to bottom in popcorn and my own 
ejaculate 
And he slew me with his red convertible Chevy. 
He slew me over and over again. 
Crushing me beneath his tires. 
And, dying | slunk back to my mother 
And together we made love under the black moon 
While she nursed my wounds and | lay dying 
And | was afraid of it. 


And | faced off against Diomedes on the battlefields of Illium 
He came at me with his pistols and his motorcycle 
An unstoppable foe unable to face inertia's golden truth, 
Brandishing a spear topped with a canister of 35-millimeter film 
Driving me back to the boats with my wounds still aching 
Where the lizards would stop moving 
And the spaceships wouldn't land 
And | was afraid 


lt was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. 
The movie was over. 


And the freeze came tumbling in and further inwards to contain me. 
| had been contained after thousands of cycles alone here, and 
alone everywhere else at once. 


| was adrift in the void that once nourished me 
Cold and empty. 
Ready for the next bit of Smell-O-Vision or paper skeleton flying 
over the audience to lure me to my seats. 
The next screening 


This is the truth of my existence. 
| am part of everything that can ever walk and talk and breathe and 
think and run away and fuck and eat and sleep and dream terrible 
dreams 
Waking up with their heart pounding 
And deep down enjoying it. 
Nobody can ever stop me. 


But in that place | fell through the cinema until all | had was my 
quest and no way to understand it. 
No way to know. 

Basking in the thrill of not knowing 
Imprisoned 
With the thrill of being lost 
Loving this paranoia within myself 
This unknown angle 
This terrible end. 

Howling to the void 
Content to change shape 
Part of what makes us whole 
In fear 


Boo. 


Next: SCP-2653 


adverse affect on the thrower so far, as SCP-989 will not come 
within two (2) millimeters of the thrower, even if they walk through 
the cloud of SCP-989. 


If any other living being enters the cloud of SCP-989, however, 
SCP-989 will surround the subject, and force its way in to the 
mucous membranes of the subject, causing severe lacerations, and 
coating the area with crystalline formations akin to what is 
colloquially known as "rock candy". This is uniformly non-fatal 
however, and leaves the subject blind, deaf, with moderate difficulty 
breathing, and in severe pain. Attempts to remove the crystalline 
growths have proven unsuccessful thus far. 


After exiting suspension with the air, SCP-989 will deposit on any 
horizontal surfaces, until thrown again, wherein it will return to being 
in suspension. This effect can only occur if SCP-989 is dry, as a 
solution of SCP-989 in water did not show any anomalous 
properties. 


SCP-989 was recovered from the home of in 
[REDACTED], Wales, after several missing persons cases were 
connected to , and a possible link to Marshall, Carter, and 
Dark was confirmed. Also recovered were letter and receipt from 
Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Limited, for the amount of [REDACTED]. 
To date, no other samples of SCP-989 have been recovered. 


Addendum 1 The following is from a letter recovered from the home 
of : 

To a Mister 

We thank you for your purchase of this fine item. | hope you will find 
it to your liking, though I'm sure your dinner guests will certainly find 
it interesting. If we can be of assistance setting up any sort of soiree 
for you, we, of course, would be more than willing to assist. We look 
forward to continued business with you, and trust that you've taken 
steps to avoid the attention of a certain group, as we've advised. 
Sincerely, 

Misters Marshall, Carter, and Dark 


« SCP-988 | SCP-989 | SCP-990 » 


Waking 


Why am | here? This place gives me nightmares, but never really 

the right ones to discourage me from coming back. The horrors and 
chills are the waking kind, which manifest in the darkness when I’m 
alone and still walking through a silent hallway, trying to find a light 
switch and freezing every time | hear a thump or a crack or a creak. 


These are the nightmares that evaporate the instant the sun shines 
again, these are the nightmares fueled by curiosity and the reality 
that no one really knows what tomorrow will bring. Why is there 
something eerily familiar about SCP-173 that draws me to watching 
footage of it, when | know that in several hours’ time, I'll be looking 
over my shoulder every few minutes trying to get the image out of 
my head and trying to convince myself that the Sculpture is not right 
behind me? 


Why am | here? 
Inherently, | feel | should know. 


It's because the nightmares fascinate me, have always fascinated 
me. 


Fear—deep, dark, enthralling, exhilarating, it reminds me that I’m 
alive and reminds me that things are in motion all around and that 
here, regardless of what office or hallway or containment area one 
walks in, there is danger lurking in the endless streams of numbers 
that chronicle years of the anomalous and threatening and horrific. 


I’m going to visit 1457 again. | don’t know why. There’s something 
calming about immersing the mind in the woes of others. Even 
though the memories feel like mine, may even have been mine all 
along, | know that they’re not mine and cannot harm me. 


But as such, I’ve seen things that | couldn't have prepared myself 
for. Muted gunshots in the dark, skin being peeled off inch by inch 


with a black knife to the cacophony of screams of pain and insanity, 
needles, electric shocks, was it always an observed effect of 1457 to 
force relapses on someone receiving memories? 


I’ve tried to steel myself against it. Train myself through use of 1457 
to become resistant to these sort of things. Empathy, which | once 
believed to be my strongest quality, can no longer be used as a 
shield. 


Before, when | saw those pairs of broken eyes, | would be able to do 
something about it. Now, all these memories, all these stories, all 
these tragedies so close they’re almost tangible and yet completely 
beyond my reach and my help—! don’t understand how a butterfly 
could have possibly witnessed all of them. 


I’m not the spectator anymore. 


1457 removes the protections that distance offers. This little life form 
carries the deaths of mothers and fathers, the sights of suffering 
friends, the crippling hopelessness of being without anyone else to 
confide in, without anyone else who knows the extent of the pain 
and the meaning of the tears. 


It’s all useless. 


It's not like anyone else will volunteer. I’ve applied for medication, 
but I’ve heard whispers that until my mental health starts to show 
serious signs of deterioration, all my requests will be denied. 


The Mourning Cloak even somewhat remembers me now, flies to 
me whenever | enter its containment area, becomes agitated if | 
happen to have forgotten to remove the sterilized gloves. Looking 
back, | can understand the sudden order requiring me to feed this 
being. | once spent my time counseling the heartbroken, once spent 
my time untangling complicated tales of anguish, once spent my 
time sharing away pain. And | happened, just happened, to get that 
score on the El test. 


Emotional intelligence. | once thought it meant something different, | 
once thought that conquering my fears meant admitting | had them 
and refusing to confront them until | was ready. 


Things are different now. 


| don’t know where these memories have come from, but with each 
broken heart or shattered soul or scarred mind, | don’t know if I’ve 
become stronger or weaker. These are bootlegged experiences, 
false images, and maybe in the end all | am is desensitized because 
| know that the memories don’t mean as much, don’t strike as hard 
to me. 


But what happens when these memories are replaced by realities? 


| swear, with all this strain, I’m surprised | haven’t developed a heart 
condition.