She is beautiful. But at the end of it all, what | love the 
most is her humanity. 


Tenderness aside, she’s anything but delicate. Strength 
is hers, equal to her tenderness. The days when she 
dances, it’s as if heaven itself cracks open all across the 
world. Her footsteps irregular, erratic, resonant, dressed 
in along gown of trailing white and grey, soft and 
powertul. 


Even the mightiest things in all creation kneel when she 
dances, when she twirls without a care for anything but 
the motion... 


It is not all sunshine and rainbows, of course. As the 
months creep by, my love finds herself on a downswing. 


From a world away | watch as she flows from away spirit 
and into stagnation, my heart breaking as the stillness 


sets in. It is agony to watch. Weeks pass, and her 
inspiration dries up; it’s as if the land itself is sundered, 
and all her friends bow and weep at her torpor. 


| almost break, almost broke this time. | debated, wanting 
to reach out and lend her my hand, to pull her up and 
see her eyes, to sooth her and snatch her away from her 
misery. But | didn’t, | let her be. | needed to see her like 
this. Everybody did, everybody did so they could see her 
highs and her lows. To appreciate her as | do. To miss 
her later. 


She suffers, but soon she changes. Not slowly and not 
quickly, | watch as her torpor becomes anger. Like a 
queen she rages. Reckless and frustrated. Time and 
again she throws herself at her cherished things, her fury 
sweeping across and swallowing everything she loves. 
The most neglected are the least lucky, they crumble into 
nothing as her fury fades. 


Sometimes she tries to salvage her work. She does her 
best, but now she’s tired. At this point there’s less... 
brightness. The nights seem a little darker, her hands a 
little less busy. She still creates, absolutely. But... not as 
much. 


| can’t wait any longer. So the day comes when | follow 
her, closer than before. She’s tired, her mind not so 
sharp. Exhaustion was taking her. Nobody can stay so 
bright for so long. 


| inhale the warmth of her perfume, fresh and clean on 
the wind as it’s always been. Gorgeous, a beautiful 
scent, filling lungs with vitality and hints of 
chrysanthemum and goldenrod. I’m on the horizon. 


| reach and take her, my sunshine, my fingers cold 
against her sun-kissed cheek. Reunited for that brief 
moment in our eternal dance. 


She shudders, my whisper reaching her ears, creeping 


happy to help you out with whatever your issue is. 


Dr. Bridge: Do you know why | was assigned to you, 
Seamus? 


SCP-948: I'd assumed it was due to how well we got on. 


Dr. Bridge: Originally, though. Before we officially met, 
when I'd only observed your lectures. 


SCP-948: Well, no, | wasn't aware you were assigned to 
me in any sense that early on. 


Dr. Bridge: It's because | don't experience... Well, uh, 
my file says I'm "resistant to SCP-948's calming effect", 
but what it really means is | don't get all happy and 
dopey when | walk in here. Because | don't... 


Dr. Bridge pauses for a second before continuing, 
rubbing her wrists. 


Dr. Bridge: I'm not happy, Seamus. | don't know if I'm 
able to be happy. 


SCP-948: Eleanor, that's... that's terrible. I'm glad you're 
talking to me, though, before you go off and... Well, 
before you go making rash decisions. 


Dr. Bridge: |, um, | already have. | tried to kill myself last 
year. That's why | haven't been around for a while. | don't 
think you noticed. 


SCP-948: Eleanor, my god. | really don't know what to 
say. 


Dr. Bridge: That's, uh, yeah. | wouldn't either, honestly. | 
just... 


SCP-948: Please, Eleanor, what can | do for you? 


Dr. Bridge: Can you fix me? 


across the evening breeze. Her eyes, melancholy. My 
bite, a chill. Resignation against exhilaration. Her fall. 


Cruel reds and yellows bleed across the canvas as she 
dies another year, soon to fade into the cold nights, 
destined to return one day to white. 


And seasons change again. 


The Market, by Zyn 


In the depths of dreamed cathedrals, in the bridge 
between blindness and sight, there exists a market for 
final things. 


Most of the merchants there are collectors, engaging in 
the trade as a form of petty competition with their peers. 
No two merchants deal in the same product, but all of 
them have the otherworldly means to offer currencies 
that cannot be traced. Some merchants prefer to tempt 
customers with promises of tasks carried out, such as 
the quiet sabotage of a business rival or the subtle 
manipulation of the target of one’s affections. Others 
prefer to trade with those who are more desperate for the 
deal, and wish for merely the simplicity of a safe travel 
home, the reassurance that a loved one will survive a 
storm, the strength to see the next day to its completion. 


There is Silence, who wears a mantle of silver-grey silk 
and collects last words spoken. Silence carries a sack 
full of enchanted shells the size of human skulls, 
magicked to trap sound in their curled depths and echo 
the words endlessly for those who press the ridges close 
to their ear. 


There is Spite, who craves the last burn of hatred. Spite 
dresses exuberantly and flamboyantly, in flaming colors 
that dazzle the eyes and distract the senses. Spite wears 
a strange contraption of belts around their spidery form; 
these belts hold slots of tiny vials, which when pressed to 


the heart, begin to glow a deep burgundy and fill with a 
substance likened to both ambrosia and ichor. Those 
who have been treated by Spite speak of the merchant’s 
cabinet of distilled liquors, each possessing the same 
dark red glow when poured into crystal glasses. 


There is Decay, whose face is never seen, who wears 
the scraps of linen scarves that have seen ages and 
ages past, and seeks the last memory of health before 
One lapses into the weariness of age or sickness. Decay 
carries a pouch of seeds said to lie dormant until allowed 
to absorb the health of another being; Decay keeps to 
themselves so no one knows what these seeds grow 
into. Some whisper that the plants are beautiful, 
flowering magnificently into towering blossoms ten times 
the size of any seen in nature. Others caution that they 
grow into twisted reflections of true plants, and produce a 
ripe gnarled fruit that is the sole means of sustenance for 
Decay’s continued existence. 


There is Death, who deals in the last spark of life held 
within a human body. Death is the only reluctant 
merchant, who is shrewd with their deals and secretive 
with their ambitions. 


Those who walk the world are warned against making 
promises to these merchants. Once a deal is struck, 
there is no forward notice of when a merchant will arrive 
to gather their due, and there are some who take pains 
to ensure that the collection date is as soon as 
possible... 


Carry On, by Aiden Eldritch 
Dear Citizen, 


In the event of this document's dissemination to the 
general public, it has come to the attention of the 
Attorney-General that an extreme threat to the safety of 
Her Majesty's Kingdom has presented itself, one that 


cannot be countered through standard diplomatic and 
military means. 


While the nature of this threat is strictly classified, we 
would like to require nonetheless that citizens take the 
following precautions to defend themselves against it. 
Compliance with these instructions is not mandatory but 
failing to comply will result in significant damage, both to 
you and your neighbours: as such we recommend in the 
strongest possible language you follow these simple 
instructions to protect yourself in these trying times. 


Precaution No. 1: Stay inside for as long as possible. 


The threat entity will most strongly affect citizens outside 
their homes and other buildings, causing hallucinations 
and brain damage with sufficient exposure. Citizens 
should remain indoors where possible and only take trips 
outside with personal protective equipment such as gas 
masks, blindfolds and earplugs. 


Between the hours of 5-6 AM, do not answer knocking at 
the door. Pay attention only to the state broadcasts that 
will take place during this time. 


Where possible, ignore requests for help from outside 
your home — government officials will be able to assist 
individuals in need more effectively, without the risk of 
harm that untrained civilians will incur. 


Precaution No. 2: Remain clear of electronic equipment 
not distributed by trusted sources. 


Government workers will visit your homes to distribute 
electronic equipment deemed safe for use while the 
threat is present. Other electronic devices, especially 
those capable of playing video and audio media, should 
not be used and preferably destroyed — officials will also 
provide disposal options for citizens seeking to remove 
these potential hazards from their homes. 


Precaution No. 3: Compromised individuals should be 
turned over to government officials immediately. 


Easily-observed signs of the threat having affected a 
citizen include audio/visual hallucinations, obsession with 
advertising media, and persistent cough. When in doubt 
about the status of an individual, turn them over to 
government officials for diagnosis: should they prove to 
be non-compromised, they will be returned to their prior 
location and reimbursed appropriately. Successful 
identification of a compromised individual will be 
rewarded with material goods such as food rations and 
batteries for electronic devices. 


More complex ways to verify that a citizen has not been 
compromised include: 


¢ Ability to recognise official documentation: 
Documents bearing the insignia of the Government 
of the United Kingdom are apparently 
imperceptible to impostors or officials 
compromised by the threat. Ask to see an official's 
credentials before letting them into your home. 
¢ Absence of electronic distortion in their presence: 
TV and radio signals will be heavily corrupted in 
the presence of a compromised individual, and 
these corrupted signals are another vector for the 
spread of the threat. If you recognise distortion 
unexplainable by distance, location or other 
external factors, immediately shut off all electronic 
devices and submit individuals suspected to be 
compromised to the government. 
Unwillingness to comply with these instructions: 
For a compromised individual, spread of the threat 
is a priority higher than ensuring their own survival. 
Refusal to comply with these quarantine 
procedures (most commonly by attempting to 
assist individuals outside, giving infected food to 
neighbors, distributing untrustworthy media) 
should be treated as a sign of compromise by the 


threat. 


The Government of the United Kingdom thanks you for 
your continued compliance in these extremely trying 
times, and assures you that these procedures will both 
assure your personal safety and assist in the eventual 
eradication of this threat from this country. 


Regards, 
Keller Baden-Smith 


Secretary of the Department for Managing Outside- 
Context Events 


You want to hear a two-sentence horror story? 


The last person on Earth sat in a room. How are you 
reading this? 


I'm the last person on earth, and | couldn't be happier. 
She turned to me with that gorgeous loving smile that 
made my heart flutter, | was the luckiest person in the 
world. | had nothing but the best intentions when | threw 
myself over that grenade. 


"Oh sugar, did you actually think | loved you?" 


In hindsight, maybe that was her plan all along. It angers 
the thing at the end of your bed. You know, | always 
loved the way her eyes reflected the moonlight. That 
doesn't really matter anymore, now, does it? 


A woman knocked on my door asking for her jewelry 
back. Now that | live alone, it is much more unsettling. 
I'm not talking to you. | know your search history. 


As the monster's shadow fell upon her, she knew she did 
not have long to live. If you turn around, you might even 
see me coming. When it stopped, we couldn't even 
scream. 


March on march on, upon the bright day, march on 
march on this dark and dreary way. There are millions of 
stars in the sky, countless worlds in the cosmos. The 
stars are in the wrong places tonight. Then | realized the 
sun had gone out. 


I've been trying to go to sleep for a while now. This may 
take some time. A tree falls in the forest, and nobody 
hears. Have to keep the fire going. Good thing bodies 
burn. Turning on the lights just makes you easier to find. 
A tree falls in the forest, and there is nobody left to listen. 


There's nothing in the dark that isn't there in the light. 
That's what | used to say. People hate the truth. Lie oh 
lie, for you face truth when you die. It didn't take long for 
me to realize that | didn't want to die after all. 


"What am | being charged with, Officer?" You're thinking 
| can't possibly do this. If | run up the stairs fast enough, 
it won't get me. He didn't believe | needed to keep 
existing. They told me | might not survive the operation 
before putting me to sleep. When | woke up in a coffin, | 
realised that they had assumed | died. 


You believed God didn't exist. People hate the truth. The 
truth doesn't care. God is real. Do you really think God 
can hear your prayers above the screaming? 


| was the last one to turn off the light. | sat there in the 
darkness, waiting for the inevitable. There was nothing 
else to do here. 


There weren't any sentences left, after all. 


There was a knock at the door. 


Shave And A Haircut by Roget 


| need to get myself cut. Growing out too long for too 
many days. It's time to stop putting it off. 


I've always hated going to the barbershop. The stale, 
sickly odor of cleaning products hangs in the air all day. 
A spinning spire representing blood of this professions 
past announces the stable to all who might approach it. 
Knives and blades line the shelves between blue plastic 
bottles and broken dreams. Sometimes, the walls 
decorate themselves with past news and trinkets. All just 
distractions from what these places do. 


Some of my earliest memories are of the barbers shop. 
Not a lot of coherent imagery, but the thrashing and 
emotion of my resistance rings still through the years. 
Spaced them out as long as | could, but even now | find 
myself tripping over the outstretched gangling of what | 
have grown. It's a mess. A really big mess. Bigger than 
any | ever made pitching a fit over getting hair cut. 


| stand in front of the glass doors. My reflection is dark 
and blurred. Inside there are men at work, paring off 
mustaches, beards, parts and follicles. Figures sit silently 
in each seat until their turn is done. They fall free from 
their self-grown earthbound nature. 


They whip the apron around, and before | can settle 
down they begin cutting me down to size. For a few 
moments there's a ripping pain, but then as the cutter 
gets to his work | find myself and my complaints drowned 
by the sound of the grinding gears. Hunkering to myself | 
wait for the storm to pass me by. 


Finally, the cutter relents. A loud thump falls to the floor 
as my dead weight collapses beneath me. Despite it all, | 
feel liberated. A great weight removed from my form. | 
can see others fluttering off as the cutters roll their 
bodies behind to a door and out of sight. 


As | slowly descend to the floor, the cutter points to the 
limp bode lying on the floor. | say nothing as | leave. 


There's a wind carrying me up, light as a feather and free 
as a bird. A hair cut free and fast. 


We the Jury Sentence the Defendant