Two-hundred-seventeen parsecs from the planet Earth, deep 
underground on a small rocky planet dotted by continuous volcanic 
activity, a three-kilometer-long platyhelminth vomited its undigested 
meal, which was quickly set upon by its offspring. It was the 
matriarch, patriarch, and offspring of its clan: an enormous, world- 
spanning clonal colony of equally massive flatworms. The patriarch 
had arrived on the world some billions of years earlier, carried ona 
chunk of rock from its original home by the Impact. It had adapted to 
its new, ferociously hostile world, swiftly out-competing the native life 
and developing a symbiotic relationship with the bacterial colonies of 
the planet. It had even developed a kind of sapience, passing down 
the knowledge of millions of years to its offspring. 


The most crucial, and possibly even venerated (inasmuch as an 
eyeless acoelomate could venerate) memory of all was that 
panspermic instigator, the Impact: the obliteration of the homeworld 
by a creature of size enough to dwarf even the patriarch. One 
moment, the sky over the homeworld was darkened by a massive 
shadow; the next, the planet was rent asunder, simultaneously 
ripped to shreds and flattened and compressed into a disc and bent 
into a helix and twisted. The patriarch had survived by mere chance; 
its foraging had trapped it on a remainder of the homeworld thrown 
into space by the Impact. Some of the nerve clusters at the 'head' of 
the worm lit up briefly at the memory. It began to vomit faster, that it 
might forage sooner. 


She snarled at them, a wild animal, driven mad by the Worm's 
essence; by a fractional distillation of the power, of the age, of the 
immensity of the Worm. The animal thrashed outwards; the essence 
of the Worm lashed outwards and twisted. The men and women 
trying to save the world were warped: their spines contorted and 
their eyes plunged inwards, stealing brain matter to make more eyes 
and their lungs started muttering under their own breaths as their 
skulls rotated counterclockwise to reality. 


There were always people trying to save the world. A few more 
came and rewrote the script again, scrubbing her mind clean and 
conditioning her. 


Two thousand parsecs away from the planet Earth, a hive mind 
construct that existed solely through the changes in the magnetic 
field of a half dozen red giants lightyears apart detected a mental 
lensing: a change in infospace, a shifting of priorities, a warp in 
information two thousand parsecs away. Something shifting. 
Something... twisting. Sunspots popped up across the half dozen 
stars simultaneously as they ejected great gouts of plasma into the 
solar systems around them, wreaking havoc on the dozens of 
inhabited moons and worlds around them. Then cores of the six 
stars collapsed in on themselves simultaneously, in a cataclysmic 
stellar explosion that lasted for months and briefly outshined their 
resident galaxy. Even as the cosmic bombs wiped out all life for 
trillions of kilometers around them, they were seeding the materiel of 
new life for trillions more. 


The Worm briefly broke through into meatspace, twisting as it did so. 
The stars were remade, the life was redone, and then all was 
obliterated in its presence. 


They told her that they had found her amnesiac in the snow. She 
was special; they were a secret rebellion attempting to save the 
world from itself. She was their Chosen One: a leader, a champion, 
a messiah, given special powers by fate. She believed it, of course; 
aside from knowing nothing else, why wouldn't she? It was almost 
like her destiny was written out for her. 


And who wouldn't want to be special? 


A billion parsecs away, an ancient race of sapient machines 
assembled a weapon powerful enough to collapse an entire 
universe. 

«I worry that the machine shall fail,» the architect chirped, 
integrated into his own machine. 

«Did you not design the machine? Are you not confident in 
your own creation?» came the response from the amassed 
workers, combining themselves to form the apparatus of destruction. 
«This machine is powerful enough to annihilate our universe. 
The Wyrm is not our universe.» the architect feared. 

«Was it not us that slew the Progenitors, the gods, before we 
were born? Was it not your creations that chained them to the 
floor of reality, and subjugated their minds that we might 


consume them? Was it not you that heralded us into the 
pantheon of divinity!» roared the masses. 

«It was. And yet...» the architect worried. 

«And yet we have constructed the ultimate weapon. The 
machine to pull the Wyrm into the under space and cast it into 
nothingness! We shall save our race or die trying!» the workers 
roared. 

The machine came together. Great plumes of light streaked down 
the side, illuminating the apparatus and terminating in a central 
barrel. 

«Il fear that we have merely awoken a sleeping dragon,» the 
architect declared. 

Throughout the universe, a million singularities suddenly became 
linked. In the spaces in-between their atoms, their protons, their 
quarks, the Worm awoke and twisted. The singularities suddenly 
inverted. The machine consumed itself, and with it, the machine 
race - the artificial deities - were expunged from the universe. 


On top of a mountain on the planet Earth, a young woman's favorite 
pastimes were imagining ways to save the world and attempting to 
drown herself. 


It was quite exciting, really. All she had to do was stick her head into 
the bathtub and hold it there. Her lungs would burn, her head would 
spin, her vision would darken, and she would start drifting. Then the 
tendrils running down her spine would twist, and start sucking up 
oxygen from the water. The water's oxygen content was limited, nor 
were the tendrils particularly efficient structures, so she still got the 
same kick. Little recreation could be found within the rebellion’s 
hideout, and she was far too busy being their God to enjoy it 
anyways. She had to steal what little pleasure she could. 


One trillion parsecs away, an aquatic race of cephalopods sensed 
the tremors pulsating through innerspace and prayed in fear. They 
were devotees of ancient, powerful beings who were old when the 
universe was young: eldritch abominations who were feared even by 
the gods themselves. Surely these ancient masters would slay the 
Worm, crush it beneath their heels, assert their dominance over all 
of time and space. The cephalopods would sacrifice their own 
people to gain the favor of the Ancient Ones, crafting an enormous 


Sample Condition: Live member of Mus musculus (house mouse), 
BALB/c strain, acquired for laboratory testing. By use of SCP-__, the 
consciousness of D-614 was implanted into the specimen. D-614 
was chosen for his demonstrated resistance to the negative effects 
of prolonged isolation and sensory deprivation. 

Sample Use: Specimen left in SCP-660 for two months duration. 
Result: Unusually, SCP- _ was incapable of restoring D-614's 
consciousness to its original body after removal from SCP-660. A 
computer interface was developed to facilitate two-way 
communication with D-614. An interview was conducted once D-614 
was familiarized with this interface; an excerpt is included below. 


Dr. Brown: | guess I'll have to take your word for it. And 
how did that feel? 


D-614: Suffocating and stretching. 
Dr. Brown: Could you be more specific? 


D-614: How the hell do you think it felt? Even mice need 
to grow and move and LIVE. Every part of me was 
straining, but | was stuck. | thought | would explode. 


Full contents of the interview are classified. An autopsy revealed 
precancerous growths throughout the mouse's body. 


Lab Report 660-D 

Sample Condition: Right arm lost in traumatic amputation just 
beneath the elbow. 

Sample Use: D-778 was severely injured in an incident involving 
SCP-_ .Lost limb recovered as part of cleanup operation. Subject 
would not have survived immediate reattachment surgery due to 
other injuries involving severe vascular compromise; severed 
extremity preserved in SCP-660 in bid to preserve tissue viability. 
Result: Right arm successfully reattached to previous owner. 
Subject reports return of sensation in fingers of right hand, contrary 
to poor prognosis due to severe tissue avulsion and nerve damage 
sustained in initial injury. Biopsy reveals little to no precancerous cell 
growth. Transplant ruled a (tentative) success. D-778 has been 
retained for further observation. 


apparatus that would siphon away the souls of their sacrifices to 
feed them. The last thought to pass through the minds of these 
sacrifices was that their prayers must surely be answered. 


One trillion-/ parsecs away, ancient, powerful beings who were old 
when the universe was young performed their idiot dance, deaf, 
dumb, and blind to the creatures that sought their favor. Yet even as 
these hideous, blighted things - creatures of sounds and shapes 
utterly incomprehensible to any being within meatspace - continued 
their song and dance in the space between the void, their hellish 
frolicking was muffled. It had been muffled since before time had 
meaning and would be muffled until after time ceased to have 
meaning. To dance louder was to attract the Worm as it burrowed 
through the spaces between realities. 


A young man with the misfortune of being able to commune with the 
dead sat in a cell, surrounded by the specters of all the men, 
women, and things that had died in it. They haunted him, endlessly 
vomiting up words like so much verbal detritus. As one spirit 
explained his plans to escape and then butcher the man who had 
framed him, the young man contemplated his potential avenues of 
suicide. His planning was interrupted by the door being blown into 
the room. Had someone come to rescue him? The man got a better 
look at his savior and started backpedaling and screaming. 


The person that stood in the doorway had no head. Instead, a 
writhing mass of worm-like tails snaked from its back over its neck, 
each tipped with a single eyeball that rotated, swiveled, and even 
dipped and ducked around to scan around itself in a 360-degree 
radius. From nowhere, it spoke: "Hullo, I'm Ramona Vonnegut. | 
need your help to save the world." 


« Deus Vulture | Conqueror Worm » 


Halloween Contest! 


DEAR GOD, WHAT? 


Yes, we are running a Halloween Contest! It's... It's not that big or 
exciting, but | hope you'll participate! The contest is simple. 


¢ Write a tale dealing with the SCP Foundation 
and Halloween. 


Somehow, there is practically nothing matching this theme on the 
site (Shut up, you.), and the staff several people a couple of us | 
think we desperately need more of it. 


The Rules: 


1. Your tale must include Halloween with an SCP 
Backdrop or The SCP Foundation with a 
Halloween backdrop. No tales about how 682 was 
really discovered on Halloween or something like 
that. 

2. Your tale needs to be a tale. No "SCP Format, 
Tagged Tale, Lookit Me!" stuff. This needs to be a 
story. 

3. Your tale must have a rating of at least +20 to 
qualify for the winning prize. If everyone writes 
crap, no one wins. 

4. You must write something new. If you've got 
something close already on the site, you don't get 
to enter it just because the contest came along. 

5. No entries will be accepted after October 31, 2012 
at midnight, Central Standard Time, because I'm 
the one running this contest and that's when | go to 
bed. 

6. The winner will be determined on November 11, 
2012 at whatever time of the day | get around to it. 
No whining. 


After writing your tale, tag it "HC2012" and link it to the bottom of this 
page! The winner will get to choose one of their writings currently 
posted to the site to be featured on the front page, either a tale or an 
SCP! 


The Winner: 


Treats by Dr Gears 


Runner Up: 


Halloween at S & C Plastics by /hpkmn 


Current Entries: 


The Last Word by Roget 

Bell Weather by Eiteilla 

Memorandum 10/31 by SpoonofEvil 

How the SPC Ruined Halloween by azzliefiux 
The Halloween Breach by CryogenChaos 
Costume Change by TheGlyphstone 

Ghost Stories by PaladinFoster 

Sweet Memories by Jekeled 

Sympathy by Aelanna 

Los Recuerdos de los Muertos by Drewbear 
Guiser's Night by Kalinin 


Thanks for playing guys! Keep your eyes open for my next contest, 
starting soon! 


-TroyL 


Treats 


| would like to here again state that 106 is not, as is 
commonly believed, a basic predator, on par with an 
advanced shark. SCP-106 is a sentient being, albeit a 
totally alien one. SCP-106 appears to be aware of 
several things beyond the scope of pure instinct and 
genetic memory. SCP-106 consistently breaches at 
moments where recovery and containment are most 
difficult. A fox may see his way out of a trap, but only a 
man will wait for his captors to look away to escape. 


-Dr. Allok 
“On Sentience In Contained Humanoids” 


“For fuck's sake, where the hell is it?” 


Agent Weng sighed, rubbing his face though his mask. The night 
was chill, but all three men were sweating badly. All around them 
surged horrors, monsters, demons, fantasy beasts and animate 
objects, giggling and roaring as they wandered. The three men in 
gas masks and armored suits looked under-dressed, if anything. As 
they stood, one man suddenly reached out, a gloved fist grabbing a 
mildly drunk zombie and tugging it close for a few seconds, before 
releasing him back to the surge of humanity, the undead beast 
cursing and stumbling away. 


“Fucking Halloween bullshit. We need to seal this whole area.” 


Agent Drak shook his head, gesturing to the traveling packs of 
costumed revelers. “The railcar popped too close to the city. It 
wasn't even supposed to be on this track, they think MC&D might 
have buggered up something. Can't clamp the whole town without 
major fallout.” 


“And what the hell do they think will happen now? The old bastard is 


out there, and we can't even fucking FIND him!” Weng kicked a 
discarded wrapper, glaring through tinted lenses at everyone who 
didn't have to chase hell for a living. 


Drak patted the fuming man on the back. “Easy, big fella. Command 
figures the old man takes a couple people, then does his lazy 
crocodile thing. That's easier to cover than why a major city had to 
be quarantined on Halloween.” 


Parks, until now little more than a statue, crackled in with his broken, 
rusty voice. “How hard is it to find a rotten old man that kills 
everything it touches?” 


Weng shook his head, still scanning the crowd. “He just looks like an 
old man most of the time. He can look however he wants. Normally 
we tell people to just follow the screaming. Fat fucking lot of good 
that does now. Where the hell is our expert?” 


A brittle, creaking chuckle rolled over the radio. “Harken says he's 
as much an expert on SCP-106 as a plane crash survivor is an 
expert on aviation. They won't field lab techs until our initial eval. 
We're on our own for now.” 


The three men stood, awash in horrors, looking for one that would 
put all the rest to shame. 


The drunk angel wandered on the edge of the fire. Demons, 
zombies, and pop-culture icons swirled around her, moving like a 
single mass, before scattering into small clusters and pairs, only to 
surge back together again. The bonfire seemed to roar in time with 
the pounding music, the field chosen for the sudden teen invasion 
just far enough to avoid noise complaints, but not far enough to 
attract unwanted adult oversight. Alcohol flowed, people giggled, 
and the sharp snap of lowered inhibitions and teen angst was thick 
in the chill air.