The whole sordid affair started, | suppose, when the town of Arkham 
was constructed in the 1990s. | say ‘town’ in the loosest possible 
sense, for it was no more a town than the frontier land attraction one 
would encounter surrounding a wooden roller coaster at a sub-par 
amusement park. It was constructed as a tribute to the writer 
Howard Phillips Lovecraft, who | am sure needs no introduction. It 
was constructed on a vacant area of land in Vermont, not 
Massachusetts as in Lovecraft's work, and there was no Miskatonic 
river flowing through it, only an unfinished canal channel. 


The pseudo-town attracted fans of Lovecraft's work, and soon, it 
became what would be called a tourist trap. Several of the general 
stores were replaced by Cthulhu's Curios and Gifts, the lone ice 
cream parlor was converted into The Creamery Out of Space, and 
served flavours such as 'Deep One Delight’ and 'Cthulhu Coffee’, 
and jewelry stores selling pendants depicting the visage of dread 
Cthulhu and the Derlethan Elder Sign. 


The town prospered under a man who had taken the name 
Randolph Carter, after Lovecraft's authorial avatar from his dream 
cycle and The Statement of Randolph Carter. | do not know if this 
was the man's actual name, but knowing what | do now, | suspect it 
is a pseudonym. | hope whatever of the Hellish realms he went to, 
the demons/devils/daemons/imps are not merciful to that horrid 
man. 


Arkham itself looked like any town built in the late 1700s, with 
cramped streets made for horse-drawn carriages rather than cars, 
all cobble rather than paved. The town's centre stands in front of city 
hall, which was little more than a miniature museum of Lovecraft. At 
the edges of the town stands its largest building: Miskatonic 
University. There are only four rooms to the university that were ever 
completed; a library, where one could read the works of Lovecraft, 
Derleth, Poe, and others in peace and quiet; a lecture hall, which 
was used to demonstrate various fabricated occult rites; an entry 
way, which connected to the two afforementioned areas; and a gift 
shop, where one could buy Cthulhu plushies and shoggoth blankets 
and even busts of the author himself, carved out of green 
soapstone. All in all, it could be described as ‘kitschy’. 


My involvement in this whole mess began at Chapterhouse 4 in 
Boston, when Gerald Fitzroy, head of CH4, received a phone call 
from one Peter Lott, who had been assigned to work at a succubus 
rehabilitation clinic in Baltimore. Mr. Lott had heard rumors from 
some of the clinic's patients that a new Lovecraftian cult had started 
up, centered around the pseudo-town of Arkham. This was nothing 
new, of course; cults based around Lovecraft's works pop up all the 
time, but thankfully, all of Lovecraft's work was pure fiction, with the 
possible exception of Herbert West, Reanimator. So, a Cthulhu cult 
popping up in the New England area was hardly unique, and they 
usually dispersed within a month. 


What made this case unique is that the cult apparently had a copy of 
a book they referred to as Al-Azif. For those of you not versed in 
cosmic horror literature, A/-Azifis the Arabic name Lovecraft gave to 
the Necronomicon, the Book of Dead Names. The Necronomicon 
has long been called the Holy Grail of magic, excepting the actual 
Holy Grail, but it was long thought to be simply a name made up by 
Lovecraft. Those who have searched for the Necronomicon have 
found only false leads or copies of the book made by Lovecraft 
fanatics with no magical properties. 


Unfortunately, even if the lead is false, the Horizon Initiative must 
investigate it. So, Team 15 of Chapterhouse 4 was called upon to 
take up this task. The team consisted of four people: Jayla Farrow, 
also known as Jay, an African-American woman who acted as the 


team leader; Stanley Dyer, an expert with various forms of 
weaponry; Jacob Nelson, a religious scholar, former member of the 
Scribe corps; and myself, Herbert Andrew Westbrooke, the 
youngest, member of the team and scout. 


The objective was simple: confer with the cult, retrieve the book, get 
out, and return it to the Chapterhouse. The missions are never as 
simple as the objectives, however, as we were soon to learn- what, 
what are you doing? No, Jay, don't, stop! 


For anyone reading this: forgive all the purple prose up there, and 
I'm sorry for knocking you out, Herbie, but | need to do this too. | 
have to get it out of my head and onto something, or else I'll go 
fucking bonkers from it. And was it really necessary to write out "No, 
Jay, don't, stop?" 


This is Jayla Farrow of the Shepherd Corps, American 
Chapterhouse 4, Team 15. As my colleague stated, we were 
responsible for recovery of what was believed to be a copy of the 
Necronomicon, not to be confused with the Necromnomnomicon, 
the Necromomicon, the Necrololicon, the Ninjanomicon, or 
Necronomi-Con, the Lovecraft convention in Providence. | am 
writing this behind enemy lines in the Arkham tourist town in 
Vermont, writing all of this on the wall of an ice cream parlor that 
we've barricaded ourselves in in practically microscopic writing. 


| have no idea why, but ever since seeing that... thing, both of us 
have felt the need to write. We managed to find some sidewalk 
chalk and have started writing down little notes everywhere we 
could. We may have left a trail right to this place, but if we can 
record this down, it'll be worth it. 


The four of us- Dyer, Nelson, Westbrooke, and myself- came into 
Arkham approximately 12 hours ago, if my watch is correct. We 
were prepared to simply find the cult (which we were told convened 
in their replica of M.U.), negotiate with or neutralize them, take the 
book, and get the fuck outta dodge. Simple enough of a plan... 


And then the fog rolled in. The fog was thicker than my hair after | 
haven't washed it for a week, and we had neglected to bring any 


sort of fog light (yes, | know, stupid). So, we went out into the fog 
with some pen lights, sticking close to buildings and using a map 
that Herbie had brought up on his smartphone. 


...that's weird. | can remember exactly what the hell they said. Let 
me try to get it down. 


"This is feckin' weird," muttered Dyer, his hand on his sidearm. "One 
second it's as clear as a polished crystal ball, the next, it's like Silent 
Feckin' Hill." 


"Wasn't that smoke and not fog, though?" Nelson clutched the 
crucifix that hung around his neck. Jake was just here on temporary 
assignment, and was meant to record down the customs and beliefs 
of the cult, however specific or non-specific they may be. 


Dyer shot him a nasty look. "That was th'movie, ya philistine." | could 
never place Stanley's accent; | wanted to say it was something 
British, but occasionally, he swore a phrase that came from 
Australia, so | just put up his accent as ‘ambiguously cultured’. 


Herbert was fiddling with the ten rosaries he had at his belt; yes, 
that's right, ten of them. Our scout is more nervous than... | don't 
know, something that's really damn nervous. A chinchilla on 
caffeine, | guess? Anyway, he said a prayer on each of them, and | 
couldn't help but look at him with something resembling disgust. 
"Herbie, you know that most of the things that we fight are just 
gonna laugh at you for having that many rosaries, right?" He started, 
and frowned at me. 


"T-that's not true. V-vampires are repelled by all r-religious 
symbols... and the crucifix is silver, so that takes care of 
werewolves, right?" | shook my head and sighed. 


"They only work if you have belief in that particular symbol. Take 
me, for example; I'm Catholic, so the crucifix, for me, is powerful. If | 
tried to hold up an Islamic crescent to a vampire, he'd be at my 
jugular faster than you can say 'Bela Lugosi's still undead." Herbert 
the paranoid Shepherd groaned, letting the rosaries fall to his side; | 
knew the man was Episcopalian, so for his purposes, the crucifix 
would probably work the best. 


these come in the form of one or two word shouts in the Boetian 
sub-dialect of Aeolic Ancient Greek. To date, SCP-638 has 
demanded wine, ivy, olive trees, grass for the floor, freedom, 
women, live animals, a drum, a flute, and a view of the sky. Initially 
SCP-638 became violent upon not being appeased, demonstrating 
great strength and speed in short bursts. SCP-638 is responsible for 
the deaths of several security personnel and staff members, 
including Dr. . When completely enraged, SCP-638 has been 
able to dent steel with blows, easily lift and throw a grown man, and 
break restraints. When enraged, SCP-638 has also demonstrated 
the ability to shout with great volume and force, shattering glass and 
deafening personnel. These shouts vary in intensity, with the 
strongest having blown a steel door off of its hinges. Audio analysis 
of SCP-638's voice and shouts has revealed similarities in 
resonance to the calls of several animals, including male lions and 
bears, as well as certain bird calls. These outbursts invariably lead 
to periods of lethargy if the subject's hunger and thirst are not 
satisfied, so starvation has been used effectively as a behavioral 
control when coercion fails. 


SCP-638 has demonstrated a strong psychic or empathic influence 
over women within an estimated radius of twenty (20) meters. Any 
females entering within this range will be compelled to be in 
SCP-638's presence, and once there will lose all inhibition. This 
manifests differently in each subject, depending on their personality 
and history. One commonality is their tendency to dance and jump 
and shout in a wild fashion. If allowed to persist, the subjects will 
dance until they drop from exhaustion and are physically unable to 
continue. Attempts to remove female subjects from SCP-638's 
presence result in violent responses from both SCP-638 and all 
affected subjects. Once successfully removed from the range of the 
effect, subjects demonstrate full memory of their actions, and if they 
did something they would otherwise not have done, as is often the 
case, they feel intensely ashamed and will not willingly approach 
SCP-638 again. SCP-638 has on several occasions used the 
affected subjects in order to attempt escape. Affected subjects 
demonstrate greater than normal physical strength and agility, and 
post-mortem examination revealed elevated levels of adrenaline as 
well as an unknown chemical compound consisting of [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. SCP-638 seems to control the subjects’ actions 


Most of the trip was made in silence, until- oh, Herbert's waking 
back up. | think he wants a turn at the chalk. You know what 
happened next, right? 


Indeed | do. From the depths of the fog, we began to see shadows. 
They looked to be human, but the proportions were... wrong 
somehow. The arms too long, the legs too short, the head too 
narrow. They would appear in the mists for a split second, before 
turning away from us and fleeing. 


At this point, we all had our weapons drawn, and were sufficiently 
skittish. We had our backs up against a dilapidated building marked 
"Arkham Poor House." We thought we were safe... but poor Nelson 
failed to account for the window behind him. With a shattering of 
glass, Nelson was pulled through the window by a green, scaled 
arm, and gone so quickly we couldn't even aim a shot at the thing 
that took him. 


Dyer swore something unintelligible, and jumped through the 
window after him, both of us following suit. The shadowy form that 
had grabbed Nelson had run out the back door, ripping it off its 
hinges in the process; this was no small feat, considering that the 
door looked to weigh about 12 pounds, and whatever creature took 
him was carrying a 250 pound ex-scribe with him. 


The path soon led us to be stranded in the fog once more, but this 
time, with no discernible buildings in sight. Jayla was barely resisting 
the urge to swear, which would simply give away our position. 
Instead of swearing, she walked calmly out into the mist... 


...and aimed her gun up into the air, firing it once. The reaction was 
instantaneous; from all sides, scaled beings shot out of the mists, 
lunging at us, but none of them had Nelson. So, we did what we 
were trained to do: kick ass for the Lord. Dyer got the most kills, but 
then again, he may have stolen a few from me; Jayla got the 
second-most, and of course, | got the least, with only one kill. Still, | 
speculate it will look nice mounted on my wall... if we ever get out of 
this damned ice-cream parlour. 


Jayla wants to write now, so | shall let her, whilst | go to take watch. 


He's exaggerating; there were only six of the things. Stan got three, | 
got two, and he got one with a lucky-ass sho 


Chalk broke. Found some papers in the back, we're writing on those 
now with a ballpoint. Have to squeeze them in really small, and 
Herbert's gone to find a clipboard. 


Anyway. The fog was finally starting to burn off by the time we got 
there, and lo and behold, by the time it cleared, we were standing 
not even 200 yards from Miskatonic U's gift shop. We went right 
inside... and | forgot about the bell over the shop door. Idiot. We 
were disarmed in less than 5 seconds, on the floor in 20. Whoever 
these cultists were, they were good. 


We were dragged into the lecture hall of the university, no surprise 
there. Equally unsurprising was the fact that they had Nelson on an 
altar up on the stage, and were starting to drag all of us towards it. 
There were corpses sitting in the seats, their bellies slit open; | 
suppose they were the previous sacrifices of the cult. 


Speaking of the cult, guess what the high priest was holding? A 
tome, bound in human flesh, black as night. My first thought was 
that it looked nothing like it did in The Evil Dead. My second thought 
was to try and break my captor's steely grip, and fling him 
unceremoniously at the cultist, interrupting the profane ceremony 
that had been- 


And now /'mdipping into the purple prose. Fuck. 


Anyway. | couldn't break my guy's grip, so | had to sit there and 
watch the newest member of our team, Ex-Scribe Jacob Nelson, get 
his guts ripped out like he was a bull someone was simultaneously 
barbequing and performing haruspicy with. They started with his 
intestines, and he reeked of shit and piss as he died, screaming out 
one final prayer. 


They brought Dyer up next. The sonofabitch was smiling, and | 
couldn't figure out why. The high priest was reading stuff out of the 
book, but | couldn't figure out what in the frack he was trying to do, 
other than summon something. Stanley Dyer died with a smile on 


his face, and even now, about four hours later, | can't figure out why. 


The priest raised the dagger, and said some words | was finally able 
to make out: "Eyhe geb hai! Nogagl ch'ftaghu- la! Throd n'ghft Yog- 
Mosha-Rath!"(No, | do not know how | transcribed all that) A portal 
to oblivion itself opened behind him, darker than dark. And 
something began crawling through... 


All | remember after that was blood, tentacles, running, shooting, 
dead cultists, and a sensation telling me to not look at whatever the 
fuck had just crawled through the portal. After some more running, 
we ended up here, in an ice cream parlor, The Creamery Out of 
Bloody Fucking Space. | can hear the thing coming closer... it wants 
nothing less than to devour. To devour what, | don't know, but... 


...it refuses to come any closer to the building we are in. Gashes are 
forming on its - ia he forces the hand of the world - its leg. Why? 
Why won't it approach the creamery?