"That's true. | still try to vary between mediums, | like pastels but 
sculpting is also fun and | just..." Taman sighed, trailing off. 


"Same here. | was always more of an art history person, really, but 
turns out that according to some, this way of thinking is somehow 
wrong.” 


"Swap surnames with Delacroix, then? One step close to that." 
Cobalt laughed. 


"Never. | like blue too much." 


« Extracurricular Practice | HUB | Testing the Flow » 


Creepy-Pasta 


The SCP Foundation's Collection of 
CreepyPasta is being moved off-site! All 
CreepyPasta which has been written by 
members will still be available (and 
encouraged!) here, but all CreepyPasta 
not written by members of the site has 
been moved to The Archive. Go there 
and check it out! If you're interested in 
helping out with continuing the archiving 
process, contact Troy for information. 
The password to join the Archive is 
"indigo". Add all you like. 


Stand Alone Stories 

An Audience by Djoric 

An Old Woman and her Garden by fieldstone 
Cave Paintings by Dexx 

Clouds by minmin 

Cold by Dr Gears 

Daddy Long Legs by Arlecchino 


Field Man by Cherry Pict 


Fire by TroyL 

Grease by mlister 

Hands by A Random Day 

| Can't by Nacht Ruine 

| have something to share. by tunedtoadeadchannel 
"It Might Have Been". by Zachary Maxwell 
Leviathan by fieldstone 

Life Saver by Dr Gears 

Love Springs Eternal by minmin 

Meat by Corerosion 

Message In A Bottle by HK-016 

Monsters by Etherealize 

Only |n Drea{{m}}s-- by tunedtoadeadchannel 
Pitter-patter by Corerosion 

Play by Dr Gears 

Progress by Djoric 

Shy by Dr Gears 

Smoker by Arlecchino 

The Asylum by Raaxis 

The Little Buck-Toothed Boy: A Fairy Tale by psul 
The Manistique Broadcast by Kalinin 


The Other Side by minmin 


The Price of Beauty by Zachary Maxwell 

The Ragdoll by Prattler 

The Real Monsters by DrClef 

The Runner by Djoric 

The Tailor by Arlecchino 

The Taste of Leaves by Zachary Maxwell 

The Woven Man by minmin 

Two Ships, Passing in the Night by Zachary Maxwell 
untitled1.txt by TheDuckman 


You Never Visit Me Anymore by Zachary Maxwell 
Sub Libraries 


Dr. Gears Storytime Entries 

Surprise! Happy Birthday! 

Surprise! Happy Birthday! Again. 

Surprise! Happy Birthday! Once more... 
Surprise! Happy Birthday! Still? 

Surprise! Happy Birthday! Now, see here... 
The Works of Doc Burns 


An Audience 


The walk always took half an hour. Half an hour there, half an hour 
back, from the outside. But it always felt longer when he actually 
walked the tunnel. It felt like time was being stretched out, that his 
quiet footsteps would softly echo for endless miles. 


Tonight was a long, long walk. He could feel the weight of the earth 
pushing down on his shoulders. The air in the tunnel was cold, the 
smooth concrete walls frigid to the touch. The only thing to pierce 
the darkness was the bright cone of his flashlight. 


This was a very old place. Very old indeed. It didn’t look it. To the 
eyes it was just a maintenance tunnel, bare concrete, an occasional 
exposed pipe. There was time stored up in these stones, soaked up 
like a sponge, filling the place as it slowly oozed out of the cracks in 
the walls and rust on the pipes. 


His flashlight bobbed. He kept walking. Time passed. 


Then, finally, already, the arch, where there would have been a 
door. There was no door anymore. The words carved on the lintel 
had been worn down long ago. Words had little power here. He 
stepped through. 


He reached the hall, though he only knew it from the breeze, and the 
feeling of the walls dropping away into the shadows. There was only 
darkness there. He kept walking. His footsteps did not echo. 


Shapes stirred in his peripheral vision. Ghostly lights flickered to life. 
A graveyard of broken and cracked computer monitors shed their 
sickly light. Nothing was ever displayed. All around him he could see 
the dim outlines of scrap wires and old circuit boards and junked 
towers. He could hear rustling and laughter from the shadows, 
occasionally see the glowing reflection of an eye. And then there 
was the throne. 


The great seat amidst the rusting, decaying garbage was occupied. 
As it always was. The form of the king was tall, thin, shapeless and 
still shaped, somewhat like a man, wearing a pale face and dark 
clothes. A courtesy. The king wore no crown. The king had no need 
for one. 


Around the throne sat the king’s attendants, waiting at attention, 
their faceless faces smiling for eternity. They turned to watch the 
man as he approached the throne, their empty eyes looking as one 
gaze. 


The man stopped. He bowed, and then righted himself. 


The king bent down, extending a hand of long, bony fingers. The 
shadows around it crept and grew like the roots of some gnarled, 
ancient tree. 


The man took a paper bag from his coat pocket. From it, he counted 
out twenty-one pebbles into the king’s bony hand. The king’s hand 
closed and the king sat straight again. 


The man was free to leave now. He did. The walk back felt shorter 
this time. He shrugged off the thought. 


Twenty-one pebbles for twenty-one children who would be gone by 
the morning. Maybe not this morning, maybe not next, but some 
morning. Twenty-one children, delivered every year. That was the 
deal that had been kept for a long, long time. 


Deals have to be kept. 


SCP-610-L1 


After establishing the containment perimeter for SCP-610 the 
Russian government approved our requests to research and 
investigate the area. For the first such exploration a small camera 
mounted unit known as 'Herbie' was dispatched at a safe distance 
and directed toward Site A. Herbie has a battery life of twelve hours 
and a control range far wider than that required for this dispatch. 


Herbie is able to enter Site A without incident. The landscape 
around Site A shows early stages of assimilation by singular 
SCP-610 infected who have fallen at largely random intervals 
around what remains of the village. Many of the homes appear to 
have suffered fire damage long since put out; however a fair amount 
remain intact. Aerial reconnaissance of Site A combined with 
thermal imaging has put it at an estimated population of 79 infected. 
Immobile infected are included in this number. However, it is difficult 
to ascertain an exact percentage of mobile versus immobile. 


Varying degrees of physical mutation due to SCP-610 are present in 
Site A and it is assumed that all the inhabitants are in advanced 
stages of infection. Herbie observed the exterior of the village for 
two hours, during which time all infected behaved with what 
appeared to be a loose sense of social structure. Because Herbie 
remained stationary during this observation period, it is unknown 
precisely what each individual infected person was doing. However, 
the central plaza experienced occasional bursts of activity and 
downtime. Requiring more information, Herbie was directed to follow 
an infected as it entered a home. 


There is bumpy camera feed as Herbie scoots over the 
gravel behind the quickly shambling infected person. The 
interior of this home is the same as that attached to the 
primary file for SCP-610. The infected being tailed is the 
One sitting at the table. After entering the home Herbie's 
camera was raised slowly as to not draw attention. This 


An Old Woman and her Garden 


An old woman fought loneliness with her garden, passing the time 
between naps by singing to the things that grew there. She loved 
every one of her crops, from the tiny sprouting needles to the hard 
stalks that swayed and flexed above the ground. They shined white 
in the day, and at night the small patch gleamed against the side of 
her house like teeth in a massive jaw. 


The old woman had lived by herself for many years. Her house 
would be small if she had a family, but because she was alone, it 
was the perfect size. She filled the house with things—figurines, 
National Geographic back issues, litter boxes for the dozen cats that 
came and went—until she was snug inside. 


She had lost her husband years ago. There was nothing left of him 
except for many thousands of dollars, tucked away in an old coffee 
can. The old woman clipped coupons and shopped at discount 
stores. She folded her leftover newspaper and shopping bags and 
stacked them until they reached the ceiling. 


The old woman never grew anything except bones in her garden. 
She had never tried to plant anything else. She didn’t know if regular 
things would grow from her soil, and never thought about it aside 
from brief moments of curiosity. She never tried to plant bones 
anywhere else, so she never found out if her house was special or if 
she just had a talent. 


It had started by accident with Osiris, one of her cats. He died one 
night—an ancient, scrappy beast who moved on peacefully. She 
buried him before his body was cold. Almost two weeks went by 
before she noticed it: a sliver, eggshell white and sharp as a pin. 


She didn't know what to do, so she laid down plant food and 
watered it every day. Over weeks, the sliver grew and grew. 
Eventually, a pink cap formed over its end. The old woman expected 
the cap to become a flower, but little by little it took shape and 


became a joint. Another bone grew out of the joint, and after a few 
more weeks there was a kitty’s arm, skeletal but easy to recognize, 
claws gripping the earth. She cared for it, like all her beloved pets. 
Rough cords grew little by little from the base of its arm to the ends 
of its fingers. She knelt beside it night and day, singing songs and 
petting it gently, so it would know it wasn't alone. 


During the months that it took for the arm to grow, the old woman 
tried planting bones of other kinds. Chicken bones. Bones picked 
from mice the other cats left at her doorstep. Bones from birds she 
found rotting on the sidewalk. Even the bones of a small deer she 
found at the side of the road. Some of them grew, but none as well 
as Osiris. 


She tried putting down blood flakes and hair and eventually ground 
beef straight from the grocery store. She poured chicken broth and 
carrot juice and raw eggs into the soil. Still, most of the crops turned 
dull yellow, like rotten teeth. They became brittle and collapsed 
without taking root. 


Osiris got healthier and healthier. One day she saw the arm moving, 
straining for a chunk of tuna she had left there. She rushed to dig 
him up. Osiris shook himself off. Clumps of dirt stuck to his mossy 
coat. He opened blank, white eyes as dull as quartz. He yawned and 
she saw a Set of perfect granite teeth. 


It wasn’t quite Osiris, she knew that. But it was close enough for her 
to take it in. The thing would lay beside her at night. It wasn’t warm, 
like Osiris used to be. It was damp and smelled musty and it didn't 
purr, but the old woman knew that it was hers. It brought her 
presents—rats and raccoons and, occasionally, dogs that it 
somehow dragged from the neighborhoods around her house. She 
never planted any of these because she was afraid that if they grew 
up, they would remember what had happened. 


As time went by, it became harder and harder for the old woman to 
take care of herself. She began to forget which of the crops in her 
garden had been there the longest, which ones she could expect to 
blossom into life, which to uproot and hide in her shed. Eventually 
she couldn't remember how many there were, and became 
confused at all the holes appearing in the dirt. 


It was after she actually saw one emerge on its own—a bat that she 
didn’t remember planting—that she knew she needed help. An old 
woman shouldn’t have to finish life alone. She thought about it for a 
long time. It wouldn’t be easy to get what she needed, but the old 
woman was alone and had little left but time. She considered 
sneaking into a hospital or a university, but she had never been one 
to break the law and didn’t know how to begin going about it. So the 
old woman started her old rattling car and drove around, always late 
at night. It took a long time, countless miles along lonely roads, but 
she found what she was looking for eventually. It was very late at 
night when she saw the pickup truck, flipped over, lying crumpled at 
the bottom of a small ravine. 


The old woman stopped her car and made her way carefully down to 
the wreck. Hope started to flood from deep inside her, filling her up, 
making her warm. She’d found exactly what she needed. The young 
man hung upside-down, trickling blood, face cast in a delicate sleep. 
He was beautiful. It was hard work, on her hands and knees, 
hacking away at the seat belt with her rusted garden shears. It took 
a while, but she got him down eventually, careful not to let him fall 
on top of her. Dragging him up the hill was even harder and she was 
afraid that someone would stop, would see her and take her to jail; 
but the old woman did not give up and eventually she got him into 
her passenger seat. The rest was easy. 


She planted him in the patch of ground behind her house and 
waited. She mixed the soil with steak, and tomato juice and bacon 
and sometimes beer—everything she could think of to make a man 
grow. She bought a portable radio and played music for him, always 
singing along. At night she held his bony hand and knew that the 
loneliness was almost over. 


The old woman gradually cleaned her house. She hired a truck to 
take away the magazines and shopping bags. She bought a 
machine to shampoo the cat smell from her carpets. On the night 
her new husband stirred she was there, waiting. She helped him up 
and gently brushed the dirt from his cool skin. She looked into his 
dry white eyes and pressed his rough cheek to hers. She took him 
by the hand and led him inside. 


She showed him around the empty house—nice, but now a little 


cramped. As she led him down the hall to the bedroom she told him 
about how they’d have to renovate. They needed space for children, 
if they were going to make it a home. 


Cave Paintings 


In a barren mountain range in northern Europe is a secluded cave. 


Deep inside is a wide chamber that appears to have been used in 
ancient rituals. The walls of the roughly circular space are densely 
covered in cave paintings. At first glance, they seem much like those 
found in other caves in that part of Europe, rendered in red and 
brown ochres. 


Look closely, however, and you will see that the most common 
figures depicted are subtly non-human. They are humanoid, but 
slightly hunched, and while it is hard to be sure owing to the 
primitive style of the art, each figure appears to have two short, 
conical horns on its head, and a hint of a tail. 


Look more closely still, and you will find some more traditionally 
drawn human figures. They are being hunted by the others, run 
through with spears, battered with stone axes. In some scenes the 
horned figures appear to be roasting humans over open fires, or 
feasting on human-looking limbs. 


The paintings are disquieting, but they are just old pictures. The 
scenes they depict happened countless years ago, if they even 
happened at all. A determined traveller seeking shelter from a 
blizzard might decide to ignore the paintings and make camp. He 
may even light a fire. 


A well-used firepit lies at the centre of the room, slightly raised ona 
natural mound. Should a fire be lit there, wavering shadows will be 
cast onto the painted walls. For many, seeing their own silhouette 
superimposed on those eerie paintings will be the last straw, driving 
them to try their luck outside with the snow. 


Others will stay. 


Sometimes, nothing will happen. These lucky travellers will emerge 


the next morning, haggard from a night filled with half-remembered 
nightmares, anxious but alive.