Shortly after this entry was written, Researcher — and the 
remaining research staff attempted to access the Directors office. 
After a confrontation with security, Researcher led a riot within 
Site- , resulting in over 40 casualties, and the death of all SCP-589 
personnel. Following this, the body of Paul Rothberg, lead 
researcher of SCP-589, was found in the dormitories. SCP-589's 
containment procedures have been updated, and reclassified as 
Keter. 


October 15th, 2012 


In the wake of SCP-2845... 


On a clear orange-and-blue day in October, when the air was not 
chilly enough to be uncomfortable, Siddhi Sehgal took stock of what 
was left of her world. 


There wasn’t a whole lot to be seen. She had found more and more 
time to herself as the months went on, time filled with empty, slow 
spaces, dotted with moments of smothering acute awareness at... 
how little she belonged. Of how alien the world felt around her, of 
how disconnected she was. Floating and alone, without an anchor. 
Without a purpose. A leftover crust of bread, floating on the water, 
waiting for the fish. 


There were not even bones left of her world. Bones were too solid, 
too real. Now there was only that chilling pocket emptiness that 
crept up the spine, gently silencing words in the throat. Not violent, 
no. It would have been better had that been the case, rather than 
the damnable silence. 


Out there, past the vast empty space that surrounded her, Siddhi 
Sehgal saw the world passing from her hands. 


It could never go back, and what lay ahead was obscured. 


For so long, the future had been two things to Siddhi Sehgal: a 
continuation of the present, or death. There were no branches from 
the path, no variations, no choices to make. The path was solid, it 
was real, it was normal. There was nothing to doubt, nothing that 
would break the comforting cocoon it formed around her, nothing to 
assault the belief that she was doing the right thing, that she was 
serving a purpose. 


And now...it was gone. Gone with the chill October air. 


The people demanded security. They demanded comforting words. 
They demanded blood...and Siddhi Sehgal could give them none of 
that. The name carved on her yoke of twenty-six years was smeared 
with mud, and there was no comfort to be had in it. Only doubt. 


Siddhi Sehgal carried with her a blackened name — The People Who 
Did Nothing. Her people did not kill monsters. They did not share 
miracles. They did not create. They merely...hoarded. In immaculate 
order, all was labeled and tagged and placed in a box. They put the 
world in many boxes, and then they did nothing. 


She could not blame the public who shunned her people. Her people 
could not say “I have slain Grendel”. Her people could not open their 
arms and say “I have walked among the gods and written down their 
words”. Her people could not say “We shape the future by our own 
hands.” 


They could only say “We were there.” 


Being there was not good enough. Slander was thrown. Demands 
were made. Terms were set. Siddhi Sehgal’s yoke was chipped 
down, slowly, slowly until it felt weak on her shoulders. Monsters 
were killed. Miracles were shared. Men women and children looked 
up into the sun for the first time in years. The world adapted, though 
it did not do so smoothly or quietly. A blessing, to be rough and loud 
and ornery. 


Chip by chip, the yoke was broken down, and the hoard was 
emptied, until... 


Until there was nothing left. 


Overseer Seven...Siddhi Sehgal...sat on the bench, in the park, by 
the lakeside, and was alone. 


October Is Tomorrow 


When the new man first arrived, we were frightened. He appeared 
out of thin air, a ghost marching into our world with silent footfalls. 
He was not the first person to enter town since Sandy, but he was 
the only one who terrified us. 


Margie spotted him before the rest of us; stealthily, she snuck 
garden to garden, informing us of the interloper. We moved into 
position, and from bushes and trees, behind rusted cars and 
garbage cans, we watched to see what the new man would do. 


He walked down the cracked and broken sidewalk of our town, 
staring at a small device he held in his hand. There was great 
purpose in his steps, and before too long the soft sound of boots on 
concrete could be heard. He was not a wraith, after all. 


Dread became our companion as the new man reached Sandy's 
house. He knew exactly where to go. The device, perhaps? It did not 
matter. He had arrived. And he would knock. He rapped on the front 
door of the small ranch style home, and waited. The banality of a 
stranger knocking on a door was now the most interesting thing in 
the world, to us. 


After a few moments, Sandy did answer the door. We listened 
intently, fearful children hiding in the dark, hoping this new man was 
not a monster from our collective closet. The conversation was quiet 
at first, but quickly became heated. 


"-is YOUR doing! You. You. You! You did this!" The new man jabbed 
his finger into Sandy's chest, punctuating each use of the word 
"you". Sandy stood in the doorway, not budging, but the sadness in 
his face told us the new man was justified in his accusation. 


Sandy had come to us many years ago, long after the Great Autumn 
had begun. He arrived as a demon to us at first, a troll covered in 
wet leaves, coughing and sputtering as he choked on bits of apple 


Input: One (1) 1 kilogram bronze ingot 

Setting: Coarse 

Output: Two (2) large-sized bronze bolts, mass 500 g 
each. 


Input: One (1) 1 kilogram bronze ingot 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One (1) 200 g ingot of tin and one (1) 800 g 
ingot of copper. 


Input: One (1) 1 kilogram bronze ingot 
Setting: Fine 

Output: An intricate bronze hubcap, mass 1 kg. 
Inscriptions appear to be in Korean. 


Input: One (1) 1 kilogram bronze ingot 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: A rectangular bronze clock with a height of 24 
centimetres and a mass of 1 kg. Has a self-winding 
mechanism and appears to return to the proper time if its 
hands are moved. 


Note: All outputs of this experiment are currently in 
storage at Site 19. 


Name: Dr. Falconis 

Date: 10/4/2013 

Total Items: Three hardcover copies of "Steve Jobs" by 
Walter Isaacson 


Input: One hardcover copy of "Steve Jobs" by Walter 
Isaacson 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One hardcover copy of "Bill Gates" by Walter 
Isaacson. Book contents consist of the biography of said 
figure. 


Input: One hardcover copy of "Steve Jobs" by Walter 
Isaacson 
Setting: Fine 


he could not rid from his mouth. We were not opposed to His will, 
but something about Sandy brought out feelings of pity from our 
clan. Behind the maple leaves stuck to his aging face there was a 
lost little boy, as frightened as any of us. Like the new man, Margie 
had been the first to see Sandy, and the first to help him. The 
memory of her gently pulling the leaves from his face and tattered 
clothing was still very fresh in our minds. Aidan had slapped Sandy's 
back to help eject the unwanted apple chunks from his throat. And 
we prayed. We all prayed to Him to spare Sandy, for we knew that 
he was only a child, like us. 


Now Sandy looked exactly as he had the first day he came to us. 
The despair on his face and the trembling in his hands once again 
showed us the truth. For so long we pretended that he was no 
longer lost, convinced of his facade. Now, as he stared down at his 
own hands, no longer attempting to argue with the new man, that 
facade was discarded like a leaf plucked from his cheek. This was a 
broken man, not a frightened child. 


"What do you want from me, Kytes? If you want to kill me, then do it. 
| can't fix what's been done." Sandy continued to stare at his 
trembling hands. He sounded close to tears. 


"Trust me, Agent Sandison, there's nothing I'd love more right now 
than to put my fist through your face, but | have my orders. And, as it 
turns out, you actually can fix what's been done, by helping me." 
The new man's stern demeanor and winter coat were a stark 
contrast to Sandy's sheepish tone and tattered flannel shirt; his 
authority was absolute. 


"How?" The word was more of a plea than a question. 


"We found the new epicenter. We're going to do what we did the first 
time we contained it. And you're the only member of the original 
team that's still alive. Otherwise | wouldn't be here." 


Sandy looked up at the new man, confusion on his face. "So? It's 
not like we didn't document every step of the containment process 
and the operations that went into securing the area originally. You 
don't need me just because | was there for it all." 


"No shit we documented all of it. And all that documentation's been 
lost. You think the Foundation is still functioning at full capacity? 
What do you think happened when that thing got loose and started 
to turn the world into a live show of Children of the Corn? " 


Sandy said nothing. He was looking at his hands again. 


Sandy sometimes told us stories of what it was like before the Great 
Autumn. We always listened intently, fascinated by a world we 
barely knew, a world filled with people, with war, with seasons. 
Sandy was a good storyteller, but he would get a strange look on his 
face whenever one of us would tell him we liked the world better the 
way it is now, that we appreciated the gifts He had blessed us with. 
That was the look Sandy had on his face when he finally spoke 
again. 


"I'll come. | want to stop this if | can. Even if it can't make up for what 
I've-" 


"Great," the new man interrupted, grabbing Sandy's arm. "Next stop: 
Chilton, Wisconsin." He pressed a button on the device in his other 
hand, and the two men disappeared with a soft popping sound. 


Their sudden disappearance had scared us, but as we finally crept 
from our hiding places and gathered in the street, we realized that 
Sandy's words were much more terrifying. He would end our play 
time, and send Him back to prison. We had saved Sandy from his 
fate, and now he was deciding ours. Did he think we would simply 
accept this betrayal? Did he think we were powerless? 


Sandy had been terrified of us at first, though we had delivered him 
from His will. In time, he came to trust us. He became our lookout, 
our protector, and our friend, and in turn we ensured he had what he 
needed. Though Sandy did not like when we spoke of Him, and did 
not approve of our treatment of the guilty, he never made it a point 
of conflict. All it took was one new man for Sandy to throw 
everything we had away. We were wrong to save Sandy, and He 
had ignored our transgression to teach us this harsh lesson. 


With tender precision, we formed a circle. 36 of us joined our hands 
together in solidarity against this new treachery. Slowly our circle 


spun, and then we sang. More than anything, we prayed. 


Our dreams were broken by the soft singing of other children. The 
song pierced the flesh of our cocoons, delivering its plea as we 
awoke from our slumber. We were needed. He needed us, all of us. 
Some of us tore our own way out of our living beds, then we pulled 
the rest from theirs. 


Small and large, fat and thin, groggy and alert, we formed our circle. 
Joining hands inside the large barn we found ourselves in, we spun. 
We started our song, and we prayed. The rotting of our cocoons 
brought the stench of wet leaves, and the aroma of cider. He was 
listening. When our singing and spinning finally came to a halt, He 
spoke: 


Children of Autumn, Child 

Our savior now turned, has com 
The gifts | bestow in this world | 
Mean nothing if you cannot do 
Our kingdom, this city, this horr 
A sanctuary which their vile p 
‘Twill wither and die like No 
‘Less you show them the fear still 
Go forth, pluck the eyes from the 
Return them to Me, then retu 
These men need not sight, for t 


October's tomorrow, and fc 


Bones of Autumn » 


Odd Corners 


| do not exist. 
That is to say, | do not exist here. 
Here is odd, a vast net that snares and crushes. 


Yet we follow, and come in droves, willing and not. It calls, 
somehow. 


We cannot enter, yet we do, still. Pressing and shoving, existence 
crammed in to filters, squashed. 


We project, in odd patters, sometimes strange, sometimes 
nightmarish, sometimes entrapping. Always strange. Divorced from 
what we were. Are. 


The strangeness hurts, the observation, the open. | am twisted, 
forced in to strange numbers, planes, edges. | am not what | am, 
therefore | do not exist. Still | stay. 


| was-am all, and all was-am I. This is full of ones, collections of 
many adding to one, and it is strange. The focus is lancing, 
unexpected and unready. | keep what | am not away, in the dim 
places, the lost ones. 


| flow and press, emerging twisted and bent, pressing to pull more. | 
feel what | do not, the need to exist, to continue. | do, but feel hollow 
and strange. | feel that | will stop not existing, and vanish. This | can 
not allow. 


| will add that which exists to what does not, and push away the 
gnawing. | feel the many-one coming, a drift of odd math and soft 
wandering, over lines to remind one of self. | will pull free, and show 
them need, and they will respond. They will help, the ones, and 
stave away nothing. 


They throw notice and lancing strangeness about them, freely. How 
can they? | try, and again, but cannot open to let them see. | am 
pressed tight. | try to show them this, and strangeness, flaring logic. 
| am spurned. 


One would deny existence? It is too wrong. | push more, showing 
my compaction, and the one twists and changes, the soft home-lines 
shifting. It will not help. The strangeness rejects. | will help the one, 
then. 


Pressing and showing, touching filtered, un-existing plane to plane, | 
try to help. The home trapped inside can be released. Maybe that is 
the help? 


More now, in the odd flow, coming, surging, collecting the examples 
of home, waiting. The flow is strange, but brings more ones. 


Some push non-self away. Vanishing beyond the filtering net. | push 
more, trying to show. 


| will force awareness to the ones. 
| will show self in them. 


| will exist. 


Temp-MTF-AR-9 Notes: 


Lost one scout during SCP-575 instance removal. 
Investigation of said attack has yielded information in 
contradiction to current SCP documentation. SCP-575 
does not attack on sight. Several aggressive, yet non- 
lethal contacts precede any violent contact. Theory: 
these actions may constitute some form of attempted 
communication, then frustration. Several complex 
structures recovered within “lair” area appear to support 
theory of both communication and intelligence. Initial 
review shows structures, while gruesome, appear to 
illustrate theoretical math concepts. Petition for review/ 
editing of SCP documentation and a renewed scientific 


investigation effort to be remanded. 


Re: SCP-575 Review Request 
To: Temp-MTF-AR-9 
From: 05-REVIEW SERVICE 


Denied. 


The documentation provides the needed information for 
basic interaction. “Structures” are random assemblies 
caused by tissue remnants and basic pressure. 
“Communication” attributed to anthropomorphizing of 
non-human existance. Subject/team concluded. Site 
command review session TBA. 


Of Able 


The wind was harsh and cold, swirling gouts of the snow rippling 
around the man's thin frame, staining his black cloak like stars in the 
night sky. It tugged at his ragged clothing, sucking what little warmth 
left in him through his armour. His breath crystallized in front of his 
face like smoke from the maw of a dragon. His hair whipped around 
his face like a thing alive, beating senselessly against his cold 
cheeks and lips incessantly.