One-two-hurl-prod. 
One-two-hurl-prod. 
One-two-hurl-prod. 
One-two-hurl-prod. 


The teeth gnash. The belly rumbles. She continues to feed it, 
walking one step back to collect the body and one step forward 
before throwing it into the mouth and prodding it in-between her two 
teeth. It lows in satisfaction, blasting a putrid odor and hot air over 
her. She is almost overcome by the heat and the stench, but solders 
on, collecting it from the esophagi that ferry bodies from the crypt to 
the Great One's abode. Occasionally they scream. As always, she 
walks one step back, one step forward, hurls it into the mouth, and 
prods it in-between the teeth, where it is quickly pulverized into 


paste. Occasionally a fire breaks out from the grinding of unsatisfied 
teeth, providing illumination and a death sentence to the acolyte in 
charge of feeding it. The two teeth next to her ignite, and the warmth 
is comforting. Her fellow acolyte makes a short prayer before diving 
over the railing into the fire. His blood extinguishes the flame and 
spatters the catwalk, which sputters in surprise. She idly observes 
that it will make things more slippery for the next acolyte. 


At that moment, she notices another acolyte snapping to attention. 
She follows suit, sinking to her knees to pay the appropriate 
deferences to the High Flesh, She Who Listens. Much to her 
surprise, She Who Listens grasps her by the shoulders, lifts her up, 
and sinks to her knees instead. It is in this manner that she, a mere 
fourth-class acolyte, learns that her child is the Destined Oblation, 
the greatest gift imaginable to the Great God. 


She is ferried out of the chamber, through the pulsating corridors in 
a magnificent procession. Music. A golden, jewel-encrusted 
palanquin. Hundreds of overjoyed, onlooking citizens and buildings, 
establishing a thruway several hundred cubits long that leads to her 
domicile. Before she has even stepped through the door of their 
home, her husbands know. They lock eyes and nod their heads 
solemnly, eyes welling with pride. In the next room, the infant is 
bawling from hunger pains. Its eyes are bloodshot, and its throat 
sore. She caresses the infant and lets it suckle, as they are returned 
through the streets, which vibrate with joy, to the chamber of the 
Great One. Together, she and the infant peer into its gaping brown 
maw. A wave of hot air escapes the pit that is the gnashing teeth, 
and far, far below she can make out the gleam of a lake of digestive 
fluids. Together, she and her son bask in the glory of the Great One. 
She can taste the bond that exists between the three, that of mother 
and child, flesh and blood, sweat and tears: nothing less than a 
portion of her soul. 


She tosses the child into the mouth. Its wails are cut short by the 
gnashing teeth, and she looks in on envy before collecting a body 
from the esophagus and feeding it to the Great God. 
One-two-hurl-prod. 

One-two-hurl-prod. 


This has no ending. This has no story. This has no context. 
Great God help us all. 


Encounter 


It's been a long day. 


First the absolute bullshit at the hotel last night (what kind of asshole 
puts a family of four in a one bed smoking room?), and Shannon 
wetting the bed, and Tate flipping out over that (but at least he's 
asleep in the backseat for now, right?), and then crawling out to the 
car this morning to find that some jackass had hit and run torn off 
the back bumper in the night, and now this. 


Stephen Forrier grumbles to himself over the staticky half tuned 
radio (couldn't even find a fucking station for miles) and tries to 
soothe his panicking children. Nikki and Shannon are terrified of 
storms, and it's a damn good thing Tate's a heavy sleeper, because 
lord knows he'd wreak havoc if the girls woke him up... Stephen 
sighs. This would've been so much easier if Nina were still... 
Nevermind. 


The car's blinking emergency lights serve only to deepen the 
surrounding gloom. The storm had come on heavy and fast, and 
Stephen had been shocked at how quickly the dark clouds had 
enveloped the daylight. He'd hoped to make it back into town by 
tonight, but no chance of that now. 


The ends of the power lines loosely draped over the hood cast 
sparks over the surrounding puddles, and the splintered remains of 
the pole and blown transformer blocked the road behind the car. 
Trapped. Stephen sighs again, softly stroking Nikki's curly hair. (It'll 
be alright, baby. It's okay. Daddy's here.) 


He'd tried to call for help on his cell when the lines fell, but the storm 
and remoteness got him nothing but a dial tone. (We're sorry, your 
call can not be completed as... Damn it.) Nothing to do now but wait, 
he supposes, and his eyes glaze with boredom and tiredness and 
loneliness and fuck you | don't deserve this and for a time he sleeps, 
until a faint sound wakes him. 


Slosh, slosh, splash. 


Stephen shakes his head, forcing his groggy mind to adjust, and 
looks out the window. There. At the edge of the shadow, just outside 
the headlight's flickering glow, a figure is making its way along the 
lines, looking for a way around. (Probably some fucking drifter. Just 
what | need right now. Better lock the- oh shit.) 


As the figure edges closer and closer to the puddle where the power 
lines lie, Stephen feels his mind race as adrenalin kicks in (This 
motherfucker's going to get himself fried!). He opens the door and 
jumps out of the car, rushing toward the oncoming silhouette. 


"GET BACK THAT'S LIVE CURRENT GET BACK, GET BA-" 


Stephen's warning dries into a choked off shriek as the figure looks 
up at him with a face suspended from nothing, whipping at him with 
strange heavy tentacles of flesh and light. He staggers back from 
the thing and dives into his car, locking the doors and fumbling for 
the pistol in the glove compartment. 


The next morning, a man who must work for the power company 
and a man who claims to be a policeman give Stephen a cup of 
coffee and ask him long questions about what happened in the 
night. At first, he's reluctant to talk (they'll think I'm crazy. Or 
stoned...), but as time goes on he opens up, explaining everything. 
He's too numbed by dread to notice how the policeman doesn't look 
surprised, or how the power company men are using HAZMAT gear 
to get samples of the puddles. The officer gives him a pill. Valium, to 
calm his nerves. 


By the next morning, he doesn't remember a thing. 


End of the Month 


Researcher Felix was playing a game. To his left sat D-2768, who 
liked to be called Sam. To his right, D-478, Harry. Across from him, 
Jeremy. The board was spread before them all, miniature figures 
locked in an eternal battle to the death. 


"Well Sam. It seems as though you're being attacked by a Mage. 
Best roll and avoid that." 


Sam shuddered, stretched, and tapped a switch. Through one 
nearby window a slight flickering light was visible. 


Click 
Crack 
Click 


Felix glanced through the window, and then looked back at Sam. 
"Congratulations Sam. A sixteen." 


Sam shook himself, horrified, but at least he wasn't dead yet. He 
hated himself. 


"Alright Harry, your turn again. Try not to cock it up too badly." 


Harry slid his figure, a cleric, closer to Sam's warrior and directly 
next to a small goblin enemy. 


"| wanna punch that one right there, if | can." 
"Indeed you can Harry. Roll." 
Harry tipped the switch without hesitation. 


Click 
Crack 
Click 


"Ooh, too bad Harry. A four. You missed him, and how you 
managed to is beyond me. Rotten luck. Jeremy?" 


This was Jeremy's third game, and Felix was quite impressed with 
that. Normally people had given up by then. 


"Backstab the bastard in front of me." 
"Excellent choice. Roll." 


Click 
Crack 
Click 


"You killed the poor man! Oh dear. Excellent form though, | do 
appreciate that. Continuing! Sam?" 


"|- I'd like to attack the same guy as last time." 
"Fantastic. Roll." 

Sam froze, his finger on the switch, shaking violently. 
"Come on Sam, we haven't got all day. Roll.” 


Sam made a fist, and bashed his hand against the table. He stood, 
his chair clattering to the floor behind him, and screamed red-faced 
at Felix. 


"I can't do it! | can't do it anymore! This is awful, how can you do this 
to people it's outrageous and | won't participate in this for another-" 


Sam barely even noticed the taser before he was out cold. 


He awoke in a small concrete room, his orange jumpsuit replaced 
with a black design bearing a large, white number on the back. 


"Oh no. Oh no no nononono..." 


He could hear everything through the metal sliding door that made 
up the entrance to his cell. 


Click 


Crack 
Click 


And somewhere around the room, the sound of a door banging 
open, pausing, and slamming shut. 


Click 
Crack 
Click 


Sam pulled himself together. He would die with dignity. He wasn't 
here because he had lost, he was here because- 


Click 
Crack 
Oh God. 
Click 


Not his door. Not this time. 
Another step closer though. He could hear muffled sobbing. 


Click 
Crack 
Click 


Another door. The one next to his? The anticipation was- 


Click 
Crack 
Click 


The sobbing was gone. His door didn't open. But Sam knew he was 
next. 


Click 
Crack 
Click 


The door to his cell shot open and the tiny floor inside tilted up, 
dropping him out into the large circular room beyond. The door 
slammed shut behind him. 


He looked around the room in a daze. Nineteen other men and 
women dressed like Sam stood pressed against the walls of the 
room, staring behind him in a mix of horror and apprehension. A 
slew of dead bodies in the same suits as theirs lined the walls, their 
heads twisted into unnatural positions, a look of pure fear locked on 
their faces, terror etched into their expressions. 


But where was it? 


Sam followed the gazes of the other occupants of the room, towards 
the door that he presumed had opened before his. 


A statue, holding the still-twitching corpse of a woman, frozen in 
place. 


Sam wretched, grabbed at his stomach, began to stand- 
And then the lights went out. 


Click 
Crack 


Endings 


Note: This is part ten in a multi-part story based around 
the events leading up to the containment of SCP-2982. It 
is recommended that you read the previous entry 
Forgiveness first, or start from the beginning At the 
Library. You can even take a look at Golan too, for a tale 
based on one of the tests of the SCP object. 


The story so far... Helen Gwandoya and Aidan Brown are just two of 
many blackmailing victims of Harold Maine, a petty, unambitious 
man who has a mobile phone that can change people in gruesome 
ways. Even though the phone gives him almost unlimited power, he 
uses it almost exclusively to extort money from his associates and 
neighbors. 


Thanks to Maine, Helen is thalidomide impaired, and her daughter 
has been murdered by Aidan, an ordinary man turned grotesque, 
invisible half-man half-lobster paedophile by the same man. 
Nevertheless, the two are forced to act together if they are to escape 
Maine's clutches, and manage to enlist the help of another victim, 
ex-radio presenter Geoff Mansani, who Maine has altered so that 
everything he says is autocorrected. 


Between them, they come to the realisation that they will never be 
free as long as Harold Maine lives. 


Unfortunately for Helen Gwandoya and Aidan Brown, Geoff Mansani 
is also working for Maine... 


Sa 


"We do this now." 


"| don't know," said Aidan. "Maybe we should - " 


contact without incident. URV-01 was sent to investigate 
the exterior of the object while team members C, L, and 
M proceeded towards what they believed to be the 
entrance of the site. Corporal H was ordered to remain 
outside and to monitor URV-1 in order to ensure that the 
device's tether did not become tangled on the exterior 
protrusions. 


The first sign of trouble occurred when Corporal H, while 
attempting to clear a jam in URV-1's sampling claw, 
reported in with the words, "Oh god, help me, help me." 
He then reported that "some horrible tentacle thing" had 
wrapped around his arm and was dragging him in 
towards a "fucking mouth," and vocalized several 
distress calls... Jesus Christ. | can't do this. Fucking... 
goddamn it, he was just a kid! It was his first fucking 
mission, | should have kept my eye on him! 


Christ... all right, here goes, guess I'll just let Sarge edit 
this for me. Again. 


So the thing grabbed the kid. It had me fooled to rights. 
The entrance wasn't an entrance, it was just... some 
cave. The real entrance was the big polyp thing on the 
north end. It grabbed the kid and started dragging him 
towards the mouth. Topside started to drag him up, but 
all they got was a snapped cable. And the kid? He got 
pulled inside and eaten. 


God, | still remember him screaming. He was screaming 
at us, he was crying. "Oh God, Lieutenant, it's eating me, 
oh god, | don't wanna die!" I'm shouting at him to calm 
down, we're gonna get him out of there, and then topside 
tells us to abort, and they start the winches. I'm 
screaming at them to wait, | had his hand! 1 HAD him! | 
got the carabiner on, we're hooked together, and topside 
starts winching us up... and we're not getting anywhere. 
I'm grabbing on, I'm telling him I'm not gonna let go, and 
then the winch starts to seize up, and | feel this jerk on 
the tether and it goes slack, and then we're both sliding 
into that damn thing. 


"I'm not giving you a choice," said Helen. "We do this now. The last 
thing he'd expect is for us to strike him at home. We finish this. We 
get rid of him and then - " 


"What? What then? We go back to normal? We get arrested? We 
stay as we are?" Even in the relative safety of Helen's home, Aidan's 
voice was hushed. 


"You can't get arrested," Helen countered. "Nobody can see you." 


Aidan took a swig of whisky, the platelets on his face clicking in 
appreciation. He savoured the taste before swallowing, allowing its 
warmth to permeate itself through his corrupted, nonesuch system. 


"He can see me," he said finally. His claws clacked and closed 
fitfully. "He'll fucking see me and everything will be lost. What if he 
can read my mind? How do you know he can't do that right now? 
How else would he know about us?" 


"| don't know," Helen admitted. "What would you suggest? Do you 
think waiting is a good idea? | sure as hell don't see him getting any 
weaker as time goes on. And | sure as fuck don't see us getting any 
stronger." 


"So what's the plan?" 


"We go to his place. | knock on the door. He opens it. You burst in, | 
leave. You find out how he does what he does. We know he 
overwrites something, you find out what. Make him change us back. 
You kill him. You leave. How you do it is up to you, but | can't be 
there. | can't watch." 


"That's the plan? You knock on his fucking door? And then a 
crippled monster who can't even fucking walk without sticks, is 
expected to somehow interrogate and then kill him? How? Bad 
fucking breath? Jesus. What if he's got company? What if he's out? 
What if | can't do it and he screams and people come? Jesus - what 
would he do to me after that? What would he do to us?" 


"You think it would be worse than it is now? | don't have hands 
anymore. | don't have a daughter anymore." Helen rounded on 


Aidan. "And you - you're a half-crustacean child-murdering 
paedophile. We live in dread every minute of the day. There is no 
release from this. How does it get worse?" 


Aidan shrugged and leant forwards, massaging his apologetic lung. 
"| don't have answers," he said. "What about the fan club? There 
might still be others like us. We could band together." 


"We tried that," said Helen. "Dont you remember Olivia Hulme? The 
self-harmer? We're not X-Men. Even if we found somebody - and 
you Know that won't happen now - what could we do? Everyone's 
too scared to help."