It started up some time in '83, around August. | was working 
freelance out of Chicago, mostly covering local color and all that. A 
man can only take so much disaster before he loses his top, and the 
world can only produce so much of it. After a while, though, it 
seemed like most every one of my sources was drying up. You can 
only do so many pieces on pork and steel before sales start to drop. 
All | needed was a big piece — something to really blow everyone 
away, to show ‘em how good a true story | could tell. And then | got 
it. The next day, | got exactly what | wanted. | dreamed, that 
afternoon as | sat at my writing desk, about standing knee deep in 
hog guts, watching as flames licked across huge vats of grease and 
lard. | could even hear it, a squealing noise that wasn't quite right, 
somewhere behind the flames. It sounded like a pig with a lung 
infection that didn't want to be slaughtered. The next day | broke the 
story on the fire at what had been one of the biggest 
slaughterhouses in the state. Sixty-three people died in that fire, and 
the story sold like hot sausage at a carnival. It said in the papers that 
they couldn't find what had caused the fire, but | figured it out, after a 
while. 


| was terrified, for a long time, after that. | didn't want to believe it, 
the way things were. The way truth and me were bound up together. 


| was afraid to think, afraid to even sit down for half a second to 
clear my head. But after enough time, you start to get more scared 
of not knowing than of knowing - it was killing me, squeezing me up 
like a broken spring. So | started to stretch it out. Little things at first 
— just a change or two, to where | left my keys, or how much my bill 
came out to. It wasn't hard, really. All | had to do was remember 
what was going to happen, and then it would, or else | wouldn't have 
been able to remember it. And after enough time, living like that, 
choosing what would happen, life was good. | was happy. Got a 
wife, couple kids, steady work, a nice car and a house with a picket 
fence. Everything was great, because | could always remember how 
great it was going to be. 


I've lived like that for thirty-four years now. Always knowing what 
was coming up next, and everything | had left behind me. I'd like to 
keep on living like that, | really would. 


| think | forgot her name sometime around last Thursday. I’m not 
sure. I’m not even sure what the name was that | forgot. | Know it’s 
not the one she has now -— that’s just the one | remembered her 
having afterwards, when | realized | hadn't the first time around. | 
wouldn't name my daughter Olivia - not 30 years ago, when Mary 
had her. Nobody named their kid that then. And even if they did, | 
sure as hell wouldn't have. | know | didn't. But | did, because that’s 
how | remember it, now. 


| don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m old now. Everybody grew 
up knowing some senile old man. When | was younger, | probably 
would have been alright with being that old man — those types of 
men tend to tell good stories, regardless of if they’re true. Now 
though, now I’m not sure what that would mean. | know what the 
truth is today, but what about five years from now? What will | 
remember then? I’m not sure | could take any more fires, or any 
more squealing. Or any more names changing, for that matter. 


| think | might be best off heading for greener pastures. 


Chapter One: Grey Island Getaway 


This place is weird as shit. 


| realize that's not exactly elucidating, but hell. It's looking 
less and less like anyone is ever going to read this 
anyhow. 


My name is Stephen. I'm a commercial writer. Yesterday, 
| got on a plane bound for Shanghai. Somewhere over 
the ocean, the front half of the plane fucking 
disappeared. Six others and | wound up on a life raft 
headed for an island, reaching the place just as night fell. 


This place is weird as shit. 


Last night, all we really thought about was the house. We 
knocked, not really expecting an answer from such a 
deserted looking place, and then smashed the window 
on the front door and let ourselves in. Immediately, | 
headed for a small couch in the entryway and collapsed. 


This morning, one of the other guys woke me up with a 
cup of coffee. It was the best damn cup of coffee I've 
ever had. His name's Tim, he's an accountant for some 
firm out of San Francisco. He was in the row behind me, 
apparently. He says the others are a construction guy 
named Markus, a banker named William and his wife 
Marie, their six year old son Evan, and a girl named 
Marjory who apparently knows a lot about cars. 
Whatever. 


Anyway, they'd been scouting out the island, so | went 
out to join them. The place is, as | mentioned, weird as 
shit. The house is the only structure on it except for a 
single telephone pole, with one end of its lines connected 


D-5674 removes the headset and puts the camera on the ground, 
facing the trees. She proceeds to walk off the trail, into the woods, 
until she disappears from sight. Nothing more happens until the 
camera's batteries run down. 


Addendum: The door leading to the abandoned house remained 
closed. Attempts to remove the key from the lock failed, as did all 
attempts to open or break the door. Seven months after the incident, 
the door suddenly opened and discharged a very old Asian woman. 
When questioned, she affirmed herself to be D-5674. She refused to 
elaborate on what happened after she left the camera on the 
ground, even under extreme pressure. Subject was found to be 
much calmer and more polite than before Exploration II, and, apart 
from talking about what occurred to her inside SCP-860-1, followed 
every order issued to her without complaints. Two weeks later, she 
died in her sleep of natural causes. 


Document 860-II] and IV 


to the house and the other dangling brokenly across the 
concrete driveway leading away from it and ending after 
just forty feet or so at a cliff so straight it may as well 
have been cut with a razor. My best guess is they moor 
some kinda barge here or something and connect it to 
the house, or maybe there used to be some kinda pier... 
No telling. That weird straight edge forms that entire side 
of the island, so that the whole thing forms a wonky 
oblong with a flat edge at one end like an unrolled 
condom. 


On the other side of the house is a perfectly manicured 
lawn, complete with a little ornamental garden and a 
rope swing setup. There's a small dock, too, witha 
canoe moored at it. Markus thinks the canoe means 
there's more land nearby- it's tough to prove him wrong 
with all the fog that surrounds the island. He wants to 
row out and see what he can find. Most of the others are 
against it, but | figure we're obviously close enough to 
civilization someone is gonna find us soon enough 
anyway, and there's no harm letting him try. Hell, I'll help 
him shove off if he needs it. 


The house itself looks like the sort of condo you'd find in 
a seaside town pretty much anywhere, with a vaguely 
Edwardian cast to its architecture. Lots of wood and 
suchlike. It's set up with modern appliances and lights, 
but there's no power at all- | guess the power came from 
the same place as the phone. Tim says the fridge was 
mostly empty but for half a gallon of rotten milk and 
some cheese that was just starting to go moldy from the 
warmth. That's a good sign. It means someone was here 
recently enough for the cheese to have just gone bad. 
The question is, when will they return? 


Markus is gone. 


The canoe is gone too, so we're assuming he took it 
while no one was looking. There's not a sign of him 
anywhere, though Evan keeps claiming he can hear 


Markus yelling. He's just a kid, and he wants to help. | 
don't blame him for pretending. Tim found one of the 
canoe paddles washed ashore a short way down from 
the dock. Not a good sign. Still, it's too early to worry, 
isn't it? 


| found a gun in one of the cabinets while rooting through 
the house. It's loaded. | have it shoved into the 
waistband of my pants now... I'm not sure whether | want 
to tell the others. I'll hold off for now, just in case. If help 
arrives, keeping it secret will have done no harm, and if it 
doesn't, well. Better | have it than anyone else, | think. 


Marjory is screaming. 


Grim 


North East Lincolnshire 
August 9th, 1943 


Howard Millpond, head driver of the 592nd Tunneling Company, 
looked along the road and contained a whimper in the back of his 
throat. All along the roadside were bits of shrapnel and viscera, most 
likely from poor animals that mistook the cylindrical apparatus for 
something they could touch without punishment. Instead, their last 
moments were filled with a blinding pain, and then darkness. 


Douglass, the man in the front seat with Millpond, looked down the 
road. They were slowly approaching Adamsborough, a small town 
that had been hit by several devil's eggs dropped by Jerry on their 
way back to Germany from bombarding Cleethropes. The munitions 
dropped were the size of tin cans, and had fuses that would go off 
when moved following their arming. They had the potential to 
decimate entire towns, and they were small enough to fit through the 
windows of a house if wind took them in an unfortunate direction. 


Douglass lit up a Michelson and let it waft through the cabin of their 
vehicle. "| hope they hang whoever designed these blasted things, 
and throw his corpse to the dogs." 


"It's inhumane," Howard agreed, looking approaching a fork in the 
road. "Which way?" 


"To the right," Douglass pointed. The road around them had begun 
to grow foggy; it was six in the evening. By all accounts, in the 
middle of summer, the fog was far too dense. "This weather is 
peculiar." 


"Y-yes," Howard nodded. "It's far too warm out for fog. | t-think 
something's wrong." 


"It's just fog, Millpond. There was rain around here after the 


bombing; | think that the heat's just evaporating the water—" 


A blast tore through their conversation, and the rear tyres of their 
car. "Jesus CHRIST!" Douglass blasphemed, his cigarette flying out 
of his mouth and striking Howard in the face. 


Howard forced the wheel to steer off into the side of the road, where 
it came to a stop in front of a small boulder. The poor driver looked 
in the back of the transport, where two other members of his 
company were seated. "Report!" 


"Singh's been hit!" yelled Jameson, their sergeant. Poor Singh was 
the newest member of the company, a sapper transferred over from 
elsewhere, Indian in descent. His head was bleeding, and his eyes 
shut. Not even a groan escaped from his lips. "He's out cold!" 


"What the devil happened?" Douglass barked. 


"Watch your tone!" Jameson snapped. "We must have driven over 
unexploded ordinance. Damn ill luck. Fetch the first aid kit from the 
other truck." 


"Yes sir!" Howard exclaimed. He turned off the car and exiting the 
cabin, making his way to the other truck, his pupils turned to 
pinpoints, and a soft gasp escaped his lips. "...I'm afraid | can't 
comply, sir." 


"That was an order, Corporal." 


"Sir, the other transport..." he looked at the other vehicle. It had 
flipped onto the roof of its chassis, and an arm was sticking out of 
the cabin. The engine had caught fire, and there was a gaping hole 
in the underside. "We drove past it. They drove over it." 


"Poor fools," Jameson sighed. "Douglass, help me carry Singh. 
We're going to have to walk the rest of the way and phone for help 
in the village." 


"Yes sir." Douglass exited the cabin, a soft whistle from his nose 
lamenting the loss of both of the transports. He made his way 
towards the sergeant, and lifted up the poor sapper's arms. 
"Millpond, you have the map. How far until Adamsborough?" 


".,.seven klicks this way,” Millpond pointed, ignoring the tingling in 
his ears. "I'll help carry Singh—." 


"Don't." Jameson hefted Singh's arm onto his shoulders, sharing the 
burden with Douglass. "You're the best navigator we have. Do your 
job." 


"Yes, sir." As they walked, they swore they heard the sound of feet 
following them, but whenever Howard turned to look, he was met 
with nothing but fog. 


August 8th 


Captain Edgar York lit a Michelson, and overlooked the scene 
before him. 


The entirety of Adamsborough was silent, from the main 
thoroughfare to the great cathedral that stood overhead. He wiped 
tobacco off of his moustache and looked at the damaged ambulance 
that had crashed into a tree off the main road. In its back was a man 
with a face like sandwich meat, his work shirt stained with blood. 
There was still soil underneath his fingernails; perhaps he had been 
a gardener, blown up by a munition. It was one of the only bodies 
they had found so far. 


Adamsborough was far from bustling, but it had a population of five- 
hundred and forty-nine; barely a fifth of that had been found by the 
Foundation in their sweep. 


"How can an entire village vanish?" He looked up into the still-high 
sun, thankful for the days post-midsummer still being long enough to 
see at six in the evening. "None of this makes sense. None of it." 


He searched the man's pockets, finding a wallet; inside was a card 
with the words ‘If found, kindly return to 19 Wensley Way, 
Adamsborough, North East Lincolnshire’. No postal code. He 
doubted that it was necessary, with how little this man must have left 
the town. He pocketed it, and started making his way to the man's 
house. 


He did not find it vacant. 


It took far too long for the company to see any sign of civilization. 


The first sign of life they were greeted with along the road were 
lights coming from windows, high above the ground, barely visible in 
the fog. Howard walked towards it, while Douglass and Jameson 
dragged Singh with them. The man had uttered a few groans on the 
walk over, and had even managed to stride for half a kilometer, 
before falling again. Now, he was limp. 


The fog gave way to a church, ancient, with brown stone and and a 
set of oaken double-doors leading into the building. The most 
prominent feature — and where the lights originated from — was a 
tower at least three stories tall, with a stained glass image of Mother 
Mary depicted on it. A cross topped the spire of the tower. 


"Maybe they have a phone," Jameson said, hope in his voice. 
"Knock on the door, Millpond." 


Howard nodded, and approached the door, banging on it. "Hello! We 
have wounded out here! Is anyone inside?" 


There was no reply; Douglass frowned. "That's queer, the lights are 
on, but nobody's in?" 


"Maybe they're having a service?” Howard asked. 
"It's Thursday, Millpond. Who has services on a Thursday?" 


Millpond pushed the door ajar. "It's open. Let's get Singh on some 
ground somewhere." 


"Hullo?" Douglass called out. "We're with the 592nd Tunneling 
Company. Is anyone in h—" 


"Quiet!," a hushed voice called. "Come to the sanctuary, you daft 
fools." 


Howard went onward, while Douglass, Singh and Jameson hobbled 
in after him. The sanctuary was considerably brighter than its 


surroundings, illuminated by candles and what little sunlight came in 
through the misty windows. The pews within had been moved out of 
the way to make room for two dozen mats of cloth, all with at least 
one person on them, groaning in pain. Several of them were 
maimed, but the wounds did not look explosive in nature. They were 
being overseen by men with white armbands and a red cross, clad 
in the uniform of the British army. These armbands seemed to be 
concealing another symbol beneath, but perhaps Howard was 
imagining things in the candlelight. 


Suddenly, they were approached by a man holding a shotgun in 
their face, wearing the garb of a soldier that should have been on 
the German front. "State your name and business," he growled.