Various conversations continued throughout the five-mile trek. 
Somewhere in town, the last leaf fell off of an oak tree, and laded in 
a vacant bird's nest, long since abandoned for the flight south. The 
birds would return, in time. 


October 31st 


‘There was a traffic jam on Main Street' is not a phrase often heard 
in many small American towns, let alone Sloth's Pit. But, with the 
danger passed, families began moving back into their homes, 
prepared to bury their dead and start healing. And the influx of 
twenty-thousand people did, indeed, create a traffic jam on Main 
Street. 


Jeffery Hubble, despite his crimes, was ultimately given a proper 
funeral. His body was cremated, per both his wishes and vampire 


disposal protocols. All profits from the pumpkin pie his family sold for 
the next month was put towards a fund to help those who had lost 
loved ones in the crisis, Foundation and townie alike. 


Similar arrangements were made at Rudy's cafe, with fifty percent of 
every drink's sale price going towards grieving families; Rudolf Dyer 
had put aside a fund to put his children through college, with enough 
to keep his cafe open in the meantime. Caitlyn Dyer, his daughter, 
made better cappuccinos than her father ever could, but it would 
take her almost a year to get his iced tea recipe right. 


A candlelight vigil was held outside of St. Jame's Episcopal. In the 
woods behind it, another vigil was held by fictional creatures, their 
heads bowed in mourning. But they could not stay for long. They 
had a danse to attend. 


Newly-reinstated Director Nina Weiss stood at a podium in the front 
of the auditorium. Chairs and tables had been cleared out to make 
room for the bevy of Site members within. She sighed, and rubbed 
her face. "I have... never been one for giving speeches. Brisby 
attempted to give me an entire stack of notecards of congratulatory 
words to spout at you all, but, in all honesty: | only have one thing to 
say." She beamed at S & C Plastics. "Thank you. Thanks to you, the 
inhabitants of Sloth's Pit are now settling back into their homes. This 
town has been through a lot in the past two weeks. But it could have 
gone through far, far worse. And thanks to the efforts of everyone at 
Site-87, children are safely able to trick-or-treat tonight. 


"That being said..." She looked at those by her side, almost a dozen 
in all. "Several of you have done far beyond what is demanded of 
your station. For bravery in the face of adversity, distinguished 
service, ingenuity in the face of certain death, and going above and 
beyond the call of duty, | hereby award Nicholas Ewell, Raymond 
February, Malcolm Guillard, Christopher Hastings, Claude Mattings, 
Keith Partridge, Cassandra Pike, Isaiah Pickman, Seren Pryce, 
Montgomery Reynolds, Katherine Sinclair, Blake Williams, and Ruby 
Williams the Foundation Star." 


The hall erupted into cheers and applause as the director pinned a 
medal on each of the personnel in turn, leaving one on an empty 


seat with a photograph on it, representing Pickman. Pike and 
Hastings were confined to wheelchairs, for the time being, and 
Weiss knelt down to pin them on. They were the only two to see that 
Weiss's eyes were wet. 


Weiss raised her hand once the last medal was given, and the hall 
fell silent. "Now. This has been a difficult time. But | believe we can 
begin to heal. The annual Halloween Party wil! be happening, for 
those who wish to attend it. | know some of us have spent a fair 
amount of time on costumes, and, quite frankly, I'd hate to see all 
that work go to waste for another year. 


"That is all." She rolled her shoulders. "You are dismissed. The party 
will be in the ballroom on Surface Level 2 at 6:00." 


‘Those who wish to attend it', as it turned out, meant almost all of 
Site-87. 


The mood was slightly sober, with the music muted and the lights 
low. There was no dancing, no singing. But there were smiles, 
laughs, hugs exchanged, and groans at horrible jokes made by 
members of Sigma-10. 


What was not sober, however, was Tristan Bailey, who had gotten 
drunk off of a flask he kept on withdrawing from his labcoat. The 
only evidence that he was in costume was a poorly-made grey wig 
on his head. 


"Hey, hey M-Monty," Tristan belched. "Who's the fox on your arm?" 


"Go home, Bailey," Reynolds sighed, fiddling with his black duster 
and fidgeting with his prop wand. "You're drunk." 


Katherine Sinclair rubbed the foam-and-white-fur mask of her fox 
costume, and shook her head. "You know, Tristan," she said ina 
heavily muffled voice, "I think you play Rick Sanchez a little too 
well." 


"H-he said he was cool with the costume!" another belch. "And | ain't 
really drunk! This flask is nothin' but Antarctic wine! Gift from Tom, 


late birthday present for me and Trev." He belched once more, and 
took another drink. "It only makes you think you're drunk! It's crazy 
shit. Also, was that a meme? | didn't know that Monty Chemical 
Romance could meme!" 


Reynolds stood stunned. "...Monty Chemic— I'm Harry Dresden, 
you fool!" 


"You don't have the hat." 
"Dresden doesn't have a hat!" Sinclair objected. 


"And he doesn't have a furry for a girlfriend either— oh." His heart 
dropped as he saw a pink light emit from Sinclair's paws. "You're 
hexing me right now, aren't you?" 


"Yep." 
"I'll go bother Claire some." 


"You do that." Sinclair watched him run off, and then brought her 
hand up, clicking the fingers together. They glowed with soft, pink 
light. "LEDs in the pawpads. Took me months to get the wiring 
right." 


"Interesting," Reynolds nodded. "...do you think perhaps one of 
those could be made for me? These costumes, | mean?" 


"Maybe." Sinclair smirked from behind her mask. "We'll see." 


"I'm not sure whether or not I'm offended, Hastings." Keith Partridge 
looked down at his subordinate. Partridge had dressed up as Gregor 
Mendel, and Hastings had... well. 


Christopher Hastings corrected his face and pushed up his glasses, 
but kept his arms in the same position. His motorized wheelchair 
had had a tablet attached to it in a manner similar to a famous 
astrophysicist. "Stephen Hawking was the best costume idea | could 
come up with on such short notice. Gimme a break. Not like Pike's is 
much better." 


SCP-811: Knee-doll here. Cold. 
Dr. Trebuchet: And then? 


SCP-811: Pain. [oantomiming something coming out of 
her mouth] Red. Red red red. Was... very hunger-y. 
Scared. Ate man. Skin... like this. 


Wachtel: Oh god... 


[At this point, Wachtel begins to vomit in his hazmat suit. 
SCP-811, misinterpreting this as a sign of hostility, 
retreats into one of the pools of water in its enclosure, 
and does not resurface until both Wachtel and Dr. 
Trebuchet have left] 


Notes: While | understand the appeal of training the new 
blood on something relatively harmless and as green as 
they are, could you please throw them at some other 
humanoid for a while? I'm trying to actually get things 
done here. ~Dr. Trebuchet 


Footnotes 

1. Prognosis and procedure for personnel who have come into 
contact with SCP-811's digestive mucus is the same as for naturally- 
occurring necrosis and gangrene once the mucus has been washed 


2. Due to SCP-811's difficulty with language, it has been deemed 
acceptable to use its chosen name when directly speaking to it for 
the purpose of streamlining meaningful communication. 


« SCP-810 | SCP-811 | SCP-812 » 


"What's she going as?" Partridge asked. 
"Pike." 
Partridge blinked. "Beg pardon?" 


"Christopher Pike, from Star Trek? Guy in a wheelchair that could 
only communicate by beeping?" He looked through the crowd to see 
her and Mattings — who was dressed as Spock, he noted — 
conversing with the Blake and Ruby, who had gone as — what 
else? — the Wonder Twins. "We're going to have to go back to work 
tomorrow. Any idea what you want to work on?" 


"We still have some of those vampire pumpkins that need analysis. 
We'll want to talk to Mattings and Reese about it, find some new test 
subjects." 


"Why not just use rats?" 


Partridge frowned. "| forgot you weren't here for the infamous 
Vampire Rats of 2009." 


"Wait— vampire rats?" 
"I'll tell you when you're older." 
"I'm thirty-two! 


"When you're older," Partridge teased, looking towards the side. 
"Ooh, they brought out another bowl of punch." 


"Fifth bowl of the night, isn't it?" Hastings asked. "They usually start 
spiking them around this time. Best not." 


"One or two drinks isn't going to hurt," Partridge mused, not knowing 
that he would wake up the following morning the subject of a new 
Site-87 in-joke. He headed off towards the punch, and grabbed a 
plastic cup. 


Seren Pryce stood outside of Site-87, uncostumed, smoking a 
cigarette. She was not in the partying mood at the moment. Bad 


things had happened to good people in an okay town, and she 
wanted none of that atmosphere. 


The door by her opened, and Raymond February stepped out, still 
dressed in his Dracula costume. "If you're gonna brood," he said, "at 
least share your smokes." 


Pryce produced a pack and pushed out a cigarette for him, looking 
at his costume. "Knowing that you were part of Stoker's Stakers at 
one point? That's a really fucking ironic costume, Ray." 


"Mu-29," he laughed. "Best vampire hunters outside of the Initiative." 
He lit it up and sighed. 


"Why aren't you at the party?" Pryce asked. 
"| left once Partridge started shotgunning the punch." He took a puff. 


Seren nearly dropped her cigarette. "How the hell do you shotgun 
punch?" 


"Stab a hole in the bottom of the cup and ladle it in. Last | heard, 
they were taking him to the drunk tank." 


"Why the hell do they always spike it?” Seren blew a ring of smoke. 
"Alcohol is awful." 


"So's smoking, yet here we are." 


"| do this, like, once a month." She sighed, looking at the cancer 
stick. "The rest of the time | just use nicotine patches. | just... 
mmm." She looked up at the second floor windows. "| don't see how 
they can move on from this so quickly." 


"| don't think they are. The fact that this is happening... any sane 
person would just say 'heck with Halloween’ and never celebrate it 
again. At the same time, it's a fun holiday. None of the stress of 
Thanksgiving or Christmas, none of the fraudulent feelings of 
Valentine's Day, none of the token appreciation and excuse for no 
work that Columbus and Presidents' Day has, and none of the 
dangerously overpatriotic attitudes of July 4th." 


"It's just..." He rolled his shoulders. "Something that people like, and 
something that's easy for most of them to do. It doesn't take much to 
make a costume and hand out candy. Pretending to be someone 
else is one of the easiest ways to forget your troubles. Heck, in the 
Foundation?" Ray tried to blow a smoke ring, and failed. "This might 
be the only time we really get to be ourselves." 


"Talking of," Pryce asked, "does Sinclair really have a fox costume 
on?" 


"Yeah, | got pictures. It's actually kinda cute." February took out his 
phone. The clock on it read twelve midnight. 


November 1st 


In the woods, the Goatman walked back to his hovel. The Eight 
Rings Nightclub had just finished its annual playing of the Danse 
Macabre, and the night was still, except for the rustling of leaves. 
Children had long since gone to bed and put their costumes away, 
some for a year, some for the last time. Now, the autumn wind had 
turned cooler, and he could practically feel all of the households in 
Sloth's Pit thinking of their own ways of making Thanksgiving dinner 
as stressful as possible. 


On his way back, he stopped at the edge of the great Pit, where 
Jackson Sloth's manor had once stood. His home, at one point, long 
ago. Jasper Phineas Sloth felt like a name that scarcely belonged to 
him anymore, but it was still his. And he still stopped to visit the 
doorstep every now and again. 


As he turned to leave, he frowned, coming upon a large, orange 
pumpkin that had been deposited by the pit. He shook his head, 
producing his axe from somewhere where it wasn't a second ago, 
and brought it down on the pumpkin. Impulsive? Yes. Cathartic? 
Definitely. 


Only the pumpkin's skin refused to give under his blade. He 
frowned, and chopped at it twice more, but it still refused to give. 
Perplexed, he nudged it with his hoof, and rolled it into the pit, 
before starting to walk away. 


He heard the pumpkin impact on the bottom with a loud sp/at. His 
heart stopped; the pit, while not bottomless, went down far enough 
that climbing out took two days without rest. There were 
outcroppings here and there, but most of them were too deep down 
to hear anything impact onto them. 


The Goatman looked down into the pit, and saw a pair of beady 
eyes staring back at him. Something had caught the pumpkin with 
its head. The eyes met the Goatman's, and a wide, white grin broke 
out on its face, too wide for anything human— or even humanoid— 
to have a face to accommodate it. 


The Goatman fled, dropping his axe, trying his best not to scream, 
and hoping against hope that whatever had appeared down there 
would not surface anytime soon. 


«Chapter 11| Black Autumn Hub 


Here Comes The Bogeyman 


October 20th 


Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin was quiet. It wasn't right; with Halloween just 
over a week away, it should have been bustling with children 
running home after school to stare at the windows of the Witch's Hut 
costume shop, or telling stories about how they totally saw the 
Goatman outside the school, guys, and how it would totally chop off 
Mary Quinn's head if she didn't admit to stealing Jimmy Striker's 
cupcake at lunch last week. 


The streets were barren, evacuated. Too much of a risk, with the 
events that had transpired the last two days. The only people out on 
the streets were either incredibly brave, incredibly well-paid, or 
incredibly curious. 


Dr. Katherine Sinclair and Montgomery Reynolds were among the 
latter category. They were escorted through town by Raymond 
February of Sigma-10. All of them were wearing black jackets that 
bore the word "FEMA" in large, white letters on the back. It was the 
standard cover story for evacuated towns, despite the fact that it 
endlessly encouraged conspiracy theorists. 


February kept whispering prayers under his breath, in front of the 
two mages. He couldn't help but wonder at the irony of this, saying 
prayers to a God who had decreed that the likes of them should not 
be suffered to live. They were good people, though, and Leviticus 
was, in his family, generally considered to be non-canonical, much 
like Dr. Sinclair's opinions on The Lion King. 


Dr. Sinclair stopped in the middle of main street's curve in order to 
draw a square of chalk, which she and Montgomery were chanting 
over in hushed voices, like a soft wind stealing the last leaf off of a 
maple tree. The pavement between them glowed, and within the 
square, several thin, white strands of energy made themselves 
known. 


Katherine reached into the square and plucked at one of the strings, 
hearing a soft twang as it reverberated. "Yeah, same as on Clark 
Avenue. The Leylines are... corrupt." 


"Bit lower-pitched here," Montgomery frowned, crossing his legs. 
"It's... eerie. This much power..." 


"| don't want to think about it," Katherine stood, scuffing the chalk 
square with her foot, a sharp crackle marking the spell's energy 
dispersing. "We're just here to collect readings to send back to 
Sigma-3." 


"Right," he stood, looking at the page of a notepad he had been 
given. One of the researchers, Chris Hastings, had made a 
connection between the locations of the scarecrows and a pictogram 
of a Jack-O-Lantern's face. Now, they were comparing them to a 
town map, and checking each location that looked like it had some 
significance. "Next location is... in the middle of Baby Bone Wood."