It was every bit as cozy as it would have been before the bombs 
dropped; the lights were still on, and the scent of tea filled the air. An 
armchair, which looked like it had been sat over the course of 
several lifetimes, stood by an empty, cold fireplace. A radio was on 
the mantle, by a photograph. York recognized that the channel it 
was tuned to was a BBC station. 


One of the front windows was broken. Glass from it had embedded 
itself in the ceiling. Singh made his way over to it, and looked 
through the broken window, into the front garden. He could see a 
large chunk of ground missing, and a finger on the ground, 
alongside butterfly munition casing. He winced. "Someone died 
here." 


"No," York shook his head. "He died in the ambulance. But why..." 


He looked down at the cross, and then up at a photograph on the 
mantle. The photo showed an old man with a smiling face, the cross 
around his neck, and the chapel behind him. There was something 
by the church; York strode over and took up the photograph. 


The church's doors were open. In the shadows of the foyer, he 
made out the form of a large black dog. York placed the photograph 
down with a sigh. "Church Grim." He sucked on his cheek, and 
placed the cross by the photograph, an unsaid apology along with it. 


Now, all he could do was wait, and pray. Singh stepped back from 
the window, hoping the fog would not penetrate the broken glass. 


The sapper was drinking from a cold cup of tea to calm his nerves 
when he next looked out the window. "It's lifting," Singh said, being 
able to see the August sun once more. "But not gone. | think | can 
see the church from here." 


York leaned and looked with him. "Aye. There are some of our 
transports, parked down the hill." He drew his pistol. "| can take you 
to Cleethropes; we have people there who can get you back down 
south." He drew his knife and handed it to Singh. "It's not much, but 
it's protection." 


The man nodded in thanks, and took the knife, crouching his way 
out the door. A howl sounded behind them, and he heard the 
distinctive crunch of clay roof tile being crushed by an immense 
weight. 


"It's not coming for us," York whispered. "It's just... watching. Just 
keep walking, and be calm about it." 


Singh swallowed, and blinked his eyes; the fog had taken on a more 
acrid form, almost like smoke. He put his shirt collar over his nose, 
but it still stung his eyes. He looked up and behind him, and saw the 
great, black form walking on the roofs of the houses, the tiles 
shattering under its paws. Its presence filled Singh with a single, 
primal urge to leave, through any means possible. 


He turned away. "I thought it'd be more docile once we returned the 


cross." 


"We've done enough damage already," York spoke, muffled through 
a kerchief. "It just wants us to leave. Walk faster." 


"Yes, sir." Singh picked up his stride, which slowed once more when 
he reached the base of the hill which held the church. "...Howard. 
The others..." 


"I'm sorry, son." York patted the younger man on the shoulder, and 
started the slog up the hill. 


Douglass suppressed a cough as he shut the eyes of the second 
man. The Americans from the containment corps had shot each 
other. There was surprise on their faces, no malice in either of them. 
In the fog, they were confused. Maybe they saw each other as 
Grims. Senseless, in any case. 


Heavy footsteps came from ahead; two pairs of feet. A shape was 
distant in the fog; just a blackness that he couldn't make out. 
Douglass drew his pistol, and made his way towards the shape. It 
was walking unevenly; was it wounded? Was it dying? And the 
sound it was making; unnatural, unnerving wheezing, like a cur with 
cancer. Maybe it had stepped on a munition, and perforated a lung. 


Douglass's finger was on the trigger before he realized that the 
footsteps were not caused by massive paws; rather, two pairs of 
boots against flagstones. "H-hallo?” he asked. 


"D-Douglass?" A familiar stutter replied. From out of the fog came 
the face of Howard Millpond, supporting Jameson. "Good god, man. 
W-w-we thought..." 


"| was lucky. | tripped, and | supposed it mistook me for dead. 
Singh's gone." He rubbed his face. "Damn it all. What's going to be 
said in our report?" 


Jameson laughed. "That's what's on your mind?" He looked around. 
"Should we be... moving?" 


Douglass nodded, looking back down the street eastward. The fog, 


though acrid, was starting to lift. He could see the great black dog on 
a rooftop adjacent to them, but at the same time, it wasn't doing 
anything apart from watching. Douglas gave it a respectful nod, 
seeing people moving up the hill, towards the church. The sound of 
a car starting echoed through the village. 


"Here!" Howard called. "We're down here! We have wounded!" The 
fog absorbed his voice. 


"Over here!" Douglass stood as tall as he could and waved his arms, 
while waking forward. "Please! We're down here!" 


Whether it was distance, the fog, or something else, their cries 
seemed to go ignored. As they walked, Howard swore he saw an 
Indian face look down the hill and back at them, but it turned away, 
seemingly ignorant of their presence. 


The closer they got to the edge of the hill, the smokier the fog 
seemed to get. When they emerged from the cloud, they heard a 
low rumbling at the top of the hill; none of them could distinguish 
whether it was a car's engine, or the growling of a gigantic dog. 


They looked at each other; Howard, the youngest, had uncertainty in 
his eyes, but also a cautious optimism that was absent from his 
superiors' gaze. Douglass and Howard wrapped their arms around 
Jameson and carried up him up the hill, towards the low growling. 
The fog only grew thicker as they climbed. 


Ground Control 


Darkness slowly turned into light once more. Blinding, red, fiery light. 
At first it was amazing, the sun rising to greet his vision, warming his 
bones. Just as everything else since the accident though, it was a 
false warmth, a false feeling of hope. 


Let go. 


Sure the first couple times he managed to turn his head to view the 
Earth he was filled with the hope that he would be brought back, that 
somehow his comrades would find him and bring him home. Now, 
he's glad that they didn't. It would have meant their end. 


You can return home. 


It somehow tuned in to the radio too. Over the years he heard a 
constant stream of broadcasts from his home, oh what the world had 
become. That was probably just to lure him in though, get him to fall. 
But he wouldn't, not now, not ever. 


They want you home, look how they try... 


He wasn't sure exactly how it happened, or exactly what it was. One 
day he was on a shuttle, a secret flight into space, and the next... 
Well he was where he is now, and this Presence was with him. 


You can't hold out much longer... 


At first he just thought it a figment of his imagination. A way to keep 
himself sane in the cold void of space. But as he began to drift 
towards the Earth he began to realize, he wasn't drifting. He was 
being pulled, and the closer he got, the stronger the Presence was, 
and it felt....wrong. 


Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. 


So he stopped it. He's not sure how he did this either. He stopped 


himself, stopped his unnatural inertia. Caught himself in the Earth's 
orbit. Oh, how the Presence raged...But what he didn't expect was 
for it to defend itself so well. 


Can't stop... Weak, pitiful thing. 


It wrapped itself around him and his suit, not something solid, just a 
Presence. And it was that Presence that made him unstoppable. 
Anything he touched broke before his velocity and density. Even 
those who were sent up to collect him could do nothing but fail and 
die. But you know what... 


You will fall. 


| stopped it. | saved my comrades, | saved us. Or rather just halted 
what was inevitable. But I'm not going to let go. Even though I'm 
trapped in this body, in this suit, | won't let go. Sometimes | even 
gain control, | smash my visor. To expose it to the vacuum of space 
when it was engrained so deeply in me would kill us both. But it's too 
smart for that. Too old, and too smart. So | will continue to hold. | will 
continue to be the harbinger of death whose blade hovers above the 
throat of the Earth. And on the day that this son of a bitch dies, on 
the day this Presence realizes it can't beat us...I'll finally come 
home. 


Home. 


D-2562 keeps looking at the woods. 


Dr. :D-2562, please remember our agreement. If you don't follow 
our instructions— 
D-2562: Yeah, | know that, it's just... OK... OK, no problem... 


D-2562 resumes his attempts at destroying the door. After he has hit 
the door twice, a small piece of wood breaks off. Seemingly 
encouraged by this, D-2562 proceeds to hit the door harder. After 
nine blows, an extremely loud roar is heard. D-2562 screams and 
starts swinging the axe in the direction of the camera. A large [DATA 
EXPUNGED] paw appears in front of the lens. D-2562 charges, and 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. The sounds of [DATA EXPUNGED] could be 
heard for hours after that, long after the camera batteries ran out, 
and showed no signs of stopping. Dr. decided to cut the audio 
feed after hours. 


Exploration IV 


(_ (from now on referred to as Subject-1) is a 41-year old African- 
American male of above-average build. Psychological background 
shows no abnormalities. Subject volunteered for the exploration. 
Subject-1 is equipped with an LED flashlight, a handheld camcorder 
fitted with a transmission stream, and an audio headset for 
communication with Dr. at Control.) 


Subject-1 inserts SCP-860 in the door leading to an empty room in 
Site- . He turns the key and opens the door, revealing SCP-860-1. 
Subject-1 proceeds through the door. After he takes two steps, a 
loud bang is heard. 


Subject-1: The door just closed, no? 
Dr. : Yes. Please follow the trail. The exit will be on the other side. 


Subject-1 proceeds to walk down the trail. The grove shows notable 
differences from previous explorations; the mist has acquired a 
slight red hue, and incomprehensible murmurs are heard through 
the audio feed, although Subject-1 seems unaware of them. Subject 
walks for 123 meters. 


Group Date 


It had to be bad. Like, really bad. The director's voice was shaking 
when he called. He said something about "emergency medical 
extraction" before he hung up. 


"You think this is some sort of containment breach?" Lambert asked 
her boss as Medical Unit 16 crept closer and closer to Site 19's west 
wing. It was her first month on the job. She was still quite green. 


"Of course it's not," Mitchell replied. "There'd be alarms blaring all 
across the site. And they'd be calling in a full on task force. Not us." 


"What if they're trying to be discreet?" 


"That doesn't matter right now. All we know is that half of the west 
wing is knee deep in some sort of shit." 


Lambert started going through possible scenarios. Maybe it was an 
attack from the inside. Maybe they couldn't trust the MTFs anymore. 
Maybe it was some sort of memetic anomaly that was most 
susceptible to people without medical expertise. 


The unit approached the door to a senior scientist's office. Just 
before Mitchell opened it, the door swung out just far enough for a 
middle-aged man to pop his head out. 


"Kondraki! Good to see you're—" 

"Yeah yeah I'm fine. Just, did you bring everything?" 
"Of course." 

"Even the lube?" 


Mitchell fumbled around in his backpack. "| mean... it took a while to 
find some but yes." 


"And the pliers?" 
Lambert jumped in. "What's going on?" 


"| want to be clear. | had nothing to do with this. | mean, not this time 
anyway," Kondraki answered. 


"Okay?" 
"I'll let you tend to them then." 


Kondraki opened the door the rest of the way. There were twelve 
men just looking at their crotches with a mixture of embarrassment 
and disappointment. As one normally would when one's dick is stuck 
in a water bottle. 


"Wha—" 
One of the men spoke up. "| mean, we were curious." 


"There was that one power point and like... | just wanted to know 
what that was even like. | couldn't tell if it was arousing or painful,” 
another added. 


"You— you literally went against an O5 order for this," Mitchell 
responded. 


"Yeah, but... like | could not tell they were serious." 

"Is Gears ever kidding?" 

"No, but like, it was just so stupid. So stupid we had to try it." 
"That makes no sense!" 


Lambert turned to Mitchell, whose face had gone pale. You couldn't 
blame him though. He was looking at a room full of his superiors 
with their dicks stuck in water bottles. And it was his job now to get 
them out. 


"Can we— can we just get this over with?" 


Mitchell swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah. | mean... yeah." 


And Medical Unit 16 got to work. 


Dear Sergeant Edward Mitchell, 


| am writing to submit my official request for transfer from 
Medical Unit 16 to Medical Unit 27 based in Site 23. 


| am requesting this transfer on the grounds of the 
incident that occurred on 05/21/2018 whereby our unit 
was instructed to extract the genitals of Site 19 
personnel from Class-3 plastic liquid containment 
vessels. While this did warrant medical assistance, this 
sort of activity was not a part of the job description. 


| would like to continue my service to the Foundation, 
albeit not in the presence of men whose dicks | have 
handled. Thus this request for transfer. 


| hope you understand. 


Sincerely, Sarah Lambert 


Grown in a Day, on a Mound of Barren Earth, Winter 


The elder god set in his garden and waited. 


Perhaps "garden" was a bit too generous a word for it. It was a sorry 
piece of earth, more mud than soil, much trodden and little tilled. 
Really, thought the god as leaned back on his creaky red-striped 
lawn chair, there was very little to recommend about most of it. 


The trees, those few which still stood, were crooked, stunted things, 
their bark moist only due to the sudden rainfall brought by the 
afternoon. They leaned on a fence not much sturdier, its white long 
since faded to sickly shades of mustard, the points of its posts as 
dull as the elder god's rake. Really, when was the last time he used 
that rake? The muddy ground was covered in rotting leaves, though 
the elder god could not really say why. When was the last time the 
trees even grew any leaves? How could there be so many of the 
blasted things in the mud anyway? 


The suns were setting, and the elder god's mood was getting ever 
more sour. He leaned forward to rise from his chair but sat swiftly 
back as the muscles in his back protested his sudden movement. It 
didn't use to be so difficult to get up, that much he knew. Didn't have 
that much weight to lift anytime he did either, especially round the 
gut area. His garden might not be growing, but he sure was. Oh, to 
be lean once more, to rise in the mornings with a spring in your step 
and a thumb as green as sweetest absinthe... 


A sudden sound shock him from his reverie. At the periphery of his 
garden, something moved. Rising much more carefully now, the 
elder god shuffled through the slimy humus of his garden towards 
the fence and the tall wooden gate installed therein. The noise was 
certainly coming from outside, but the sorry state of both fence and 
gate (not to mention the god's eyes) made it difficult for him to see 
much. Something colorful was moving about outside, something 
cheerful and loud. Even without seeing it, the elder god hated it 
immediately.