"Manny! Hey, look, | get the point, okay? Nobody leaves the circus. 
get it! MANNY!" 


As the Man with the Upside-Down face turned his back to Tom, he 
raised his hand in salute and said: "Oh, they do, Tom. They just 
don't go anywhere. Adios!" 


"What'll happen to him, Manny?" Elisa asked as they made their way 
back to the clearing where the circus had pitched its tent. 


"The clowns are just going to have a little talk with him-look, | realize 
all this may seem a bit drastic, Elisa, but we're family," Manny said, 
smiling that strange upside-down smile of his, "And family stays 
together." 


Behind them a tortured scream rang out and Elisa's eyes filled with 
tears. 


Freaky Commodities 


There were four men in the elevator. Two buff men in loose suits 
stood on the edges, staring blankly at the wall in front of them. Next 
to the left-most guard was a middle-aged British man with a graying 
mustache. He was smiling unevenly, perhaps due to a stroke in his 
earlier days, such that one side of his mustache was significantly 
higher than the other. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with 
a cursive "Marshall, Carter, and Dark LTD" embossed on the breast. 
The final man was not smiling, although he appeared to be, because 
his face was upside down. 


"We have some very interesting options for you today, Manny, 
correct?" the British man asked. 


"You may call me that, yes," the Man with the Upside-Down Face 
responded. It was a stupid nickname, but he had met the British 
man, Burgess, twice before (although he had accompanied Fuller 
those times). Moreover, being called Manny as opposed to 
something more formal helped alleviate the painfully over- 
professional air of the conversation. 


"Very good. You may follow me." The British man finished the 
sentence just as the elevator doors slid open. Wholly unimpressed, 
Manny strode behind him through a brightly-lit hallway into a large 
red room adorned with tapestries. Three creatures, as they seemed, 
were in the middle of the room inside of tight steel cages. One, a 
heavily neotonized old Aboriginal, had her head pressed to the bars 
of her cage with a hungry look in her eyes as she tracked Manny 
from the doorway. In the other cage sat a younger boy, no older 
than fifteen, whose entire body was covered in a thin film of a dark 
pink substance. He did not look up. The third cage appeared to be 
filled with a flickering fire, and the Man with the Upside-Down Face 
could have sworn he saw a figure shift around. 


"Alright. What can they do?" He paused for a second. "This female 
one," Manny said. "I'd like to see her talent." 


"Ah yes, we call her the Amazing Australian. She is able to move 
her center of weight a couple feet or so outside of her body, allowing 
her to accomplish incredible feats of acrobatics. We haven't a clue 
as to how she does it, but then again, we don't care." Burgess spoke 
with a pitchman's flair and a younger man's energy, though he knew 
as he spoke that folks from the Circus of the Disquieting would 
remain mainly uninfluenced by even the best deliveries. After all, 
they sold things for a living, just as he did. 


"May | see it?" inquired the Man with the Upside-Down Face. His 
eyebrows fluttered near his neck as he spoke. 


"Of course!" said Burgess. "Anna, flip the cage." 


Nothing happened. "Anna, flip the cage." he said again. Still nothing. 
Burgess walked over and kicked the bars next to the woman's face. 
Shrieking, she plastered herself against the top and sides of the box 
and flung the box high up into the air, until it was jerked back to the 
ground by a thick steel chain bolted into the floor. She peered again 
outside through the bars at Manny. 


"Mr. Burgess," he said exasperatedly, "This woman doesn't have 
long to live. That little stunt is hurting her every time she does it, and 
she's already old. I'm afraid that if | took this one, we wouldn't get 
more than four shows out of her. Five maximum." 


"Perhaps you would like to examine her more closely? She is 
healthier than she looks." Burgess suggested. 


"No, she's not. What is the next one?" asked Manny. In the middle 
cage, the creature groaned softly. 


"This one has a weird property that we thought might interest you as 
a freak. It secretes a slippery salmon-colored substance that smells 

ever so slightly sweet. This one is much younger than the previous, 

which ought to better serve your purposes." 


The boy in the cage did not look up or acknowledge either man. It 
moaned again forcefully, then let out a loud whimper. 


"Heh, this one's harmless." Burgess fished a small key out of his 


be forbidden unless approved by one level O5 overseer. You've 
been warned, Dr. Mirth. - O5- 


Interview Logs 
662-L1 
Acquisition Report: 


SCP-662 was discovered in the possession of a petty thief and 
grave robberin , , USA. The thief was in the process of selling 
SCP-662 to a pawn shop in the mentioned town when the bell was 
accidentally “rung” by the pawn shop attendant. Mr. Deeds 
appeared from the storage area behind the counter and promptly 
addressed the attendant. Believing that he was about to be robbed 
by the two men, the attendant overreacted and managed to get hold 
of a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter. Mr. Deeds was 
fatally wounded by the attendant and died on scene. 


The thief escaped, but was apprehended by Foundation agents after 
a week-long search of the surrounding towns. Under questioning, 
the thief revealed that he found the bell in its box in the grave of 

, located on the outskirts of the above mentioned town. 
He was then remitted for D-class personnel assignment and 
subsequently perished during testing of SCP- 


The bell did not come under the purview of the Foundation until after 
the crime and subsequent transport of Mr. Deeds’ body to the local 
morgue. After the disappearance of the body from the morgue, an 
agent was sent to investigate the possible outbreak of SCP- or 
other unknown necrotic reinvigorating cause. 


Mr. Deeds reappeared in the Case File Item Storage room of the 
local constabulary after the bell was handled by Sergeant .He 
was quickly apprehended and Agent took him into custody 
three hours after reappearance under the guise of an FBI agent. 
When the handcuffed Mr. Deeds once again disappeared, the agent 
intuited that the bell itself may have something to do with the string 
of incidents, and after acquiring it and testing proved his hunch, 
brought the bell back to for further testing. Agent was 
awarded an official Foundation “Pat on the Back” plaque for his 


pocket and walked around behind the cage, unlocking it. With great 
effort, he spun the cage around so that the door was facing Manny 
and tilted the cage up, so that a wave of pink goo washed on to the 
floor like a red carpet rolling out in front of a movie star. The creature 
inside slid out as well on the raft of sludge, panicking. It stumbled to 
its feet, slipped on its secretion, and immediately fell back down. Its 
gaze slowly met Manny's as it desperately tried to take account of its 
new surroundings. 


Manny leaned down low to talk to it, so that his forehead was just 
above the creature's. It looked up at him pleadingly. After a long 
second, Manny stood up again and faced Burgess directly. "I'll come 
back to this one. I'd like to see the last option, if you don't mind." 


"Of course, sir," said Burgess. He sidestepped carefully so as to 
avoid the sludge that was slowly covering more and more of the 
floor towards the third cage. "This one's a bit unfortunate. Lost a bet 
to the wrong person, I'm afraid. His entire head is eternally engulfed 
in flame. Perhaps this interests you, Manny?" 


"I'm quite numb to it, actually," the freak chimed in. It had a London 
accent almost as strong as Burgess’. 


Manny smiled a wide grin that made his cheeks puff out and leaned 
in to the cage near the fire. "You're English?" 


"Yes sir," it replied. 


"How would you like a job?" he asked. "You'd be fed three times a 
day and clothed." 


"| would like that very much, sir." 


"Perfect!" With that, Manny stood up and walked over to Burgess. 
"When would you like your performance scheduled?" he asked. 


"Our patron has requested the Thursday after next." 


"Great. We will inform them where it is the day of the event." Manny 
stuck his hand out. "Pleasure doing business with you again, 
Burgess." 


"Likewise," Burgess responded. He shook Manny's hand and 
handed him the key. Manny unlocked the freak's cage and nodded 
to himself while it made its way to its feet. "Shall | walk you out?" 
Burgess inquired. 


"No thank you, | know the way. Send Marshall my regards." He 
turned. "Follow me," he said, directed at the man on fire. The two 
walked down the hallway towards the elevator. After getting a glare 
from one of the guards, they decided to take the stairs down. Finally, 
the flame-faced man spoke up. 


"Thank you," he said quietly. 


The Man with the Upside-Down Face smiled again. "Most people 
don't come with me so easily. | usually have to convince them, offer 
them love, or money, or fame. All you wanted was to be let out of 
that cage." Manny sighed. 


"| guess some people are simple," he replied. 


"| guess some are." 


Free Freaks 


Kagome kagome 

Kago no naka no tori wa 
ltsu itsu deyaru 

Yoake no ban ni 

Tsuru to kame ga subetta. 
Ushiro no shoumen daare 


Yume Kurosawa hummed an old Japanese children's game song to 
herself as she sat in the darkness of the Den of Freaks. Outside she 
could hear the crowds of people swarming and chatting as they 
ventured into the dozens of attractions and booths the Circus of The 
Disquieting had to offer. Far off towards the carnival grounds, there 
were screams of delighted terror coursing through the rides, and the 
occasional yell of triumph or disappointment by the game booths. 
Outwardly, Yume kept a stoic smile on her face, but inside, she felt a 
rush of dread; even though she couldn't see it, she could hear the 
Freewheeler, the Ringmaster's watchdogs, a few rooms down, its 
awful, squeaky metal wheels rolling over and over as its Rider's feet 
fumbled unevenly on old bike pedals. 


The Den of Freaks was some twenty feet across from the 
Ringmaster's domain. Unlike the vivid scarlet and gold that adorned 
the Big Top, the Den was a tent of deep, poisonous purple and neon 
green. It was here where others such as herself were looked upon in 
awe and fear for their abnormalities. Yume had spent the majority of 
her seventeen years as part of the Circus in this very place; now 
twenty-three, it was the only life she was truly used to, and this tent 
was the only place where she was surrounded by a select few she 
considered friends. Life was hard for a Freak; Manny was kind to all 
of them, but the Ringmaster looked down on everyone in the Den as 
if its inhabitants were his personal playthings. No one dared to 


speak out though; that could be a one-way ticket to the Clowns. 


Along the inner wall of the tarp, Kurosawa gazed at the posters 
depicting various human oddities; all of them had stretched grins on 
their faces, all of them looked lively, and, most of all, all of them 
looked happy. Kurosawa creased her eyes in bitterness and looked 
down at her feet, then continued humming her song. Her shift as a 
display was over, and now she had ten hours of solitude to brood... 


Mommy, she looks gross! 

Can we go now? | don't like these people... 
Weird... 

Sniffle...Sniffle... 

Freaks. 

Monsters. 

Creeps. 


Freak 


Freak 


Squeak, Squeak, Squeak 


Yume snapped out of her two hour doze to the sound of distant 
retching, followed by a gasp of awe. It was a familiar sound she had 
grown accustomed to over the seventeen years; she and the person 
uttering it had been taken by the Circus within weeks of each other. 


"Quincy's up..." she murmured. Even as she said these words, a 
breeze blew into her room from the main Den, and with it came 
three, dainty, winged creatures. Yellow swallowtails. The butterflies 
fluttered around Yume in synchronization, guided by their master's 
will. It was his standard gesture of camaraderie. Pursing her lips, 
Yume smiled a sad smile and held out a finger; the butterflies flew 
about it, then slowly flew away, back out the way they came from, 
back out into the Den. Yume knew better than to follow; it was 
against the rules for an unscheduled freak to enter the Den during a 
show. Still, she wished she could have seen Quincy's act; she 


almost envied her friend for the positive reception the crowds gave 
him. She immediately regretted thinking that. 


"Stupid," she told herself. "It's all so stupid..." 


The main room of the Den was some fifty feet long, with little 
lighting, except for the dozen or so pedestals that lined the edges of 
the interior; these pedestals shone and flashed in circular patterns, 
each one illuminating a Freak. There were five on exhibition at the 
moment. Four remained on their stands; the fifth was in the center, 
illuminated by circling spotlights. 


He was a scrawny, pale man of thirty, clothed in a frilly suit colored 
neon pink, red, and green; a cheap plastic tiara hung lopsided on his 
unkempt blonde and dyed, purple hair. His mouth bulged and curved 
in an odd, filled shape, as if he was trying to swallow an unpleasant 
pill. Then, without warning, he retched. A torrent of vermilion, 
orange, and black spilled from his mouth, flooding the floor. For a 
moment, the mass he vomited lay inert. Then it started rising up. It 
started flying. The audience shouted with approval once more. 
Quincy Allicott, The Man With Butterflies in his Stomach, grimaced 
as he rubbed his stomach delicately, looking up at the orange cloud 
above him. 


It wasn't his sick, it wasn't even liquid. The mass was a swarm of 
monarch butterflies. 


Quincy raised his eyebrows. Haven't seen those in awhile, he 
thought to himself. That ought to earn me some recognition. 


He walked off the main ring and returned to his pedestal, sitting 
down on his wooden stool. 


A throne fit for a butterfly king. Someone toss me a real crown! 
Quincy smiled crookedly as he thought wryly to himself. 


"Monarchs? You're stepping up your game, Quincy." 
Quincy turned his head at the sound of a melancholy, airy voice. 


"Hello, Fish." 


The Fishman of Manasquan looked at Quincy from his adjacent 
tank/pedestal. He didn't have nearly as many people surrounding 
him as the most popular performer in the Den; having gills and being 
covered in fins and scales was interesting, but not as...exciting as 
having the ability to exhale butterflies. 


"Thank you," Quincy said, leaning with his hands on his knees. "Act 
going along well?" 


"It's been better," The Fishman said mournfully. "You know how they 
have me speak to different sea creatures in here? My fish haven't 
been exactly cooperative as of lately; they hate being in this place, 
and they all go belly-up sooner or later. The salmon just died in the 
middle of my act, and—" The Fishman broke off midsentence. 


"Oy! Fish! What's going on?" Quincy spoke in a hushed bark. 


"The—those damned Freewheelers, Quincy!" Fishman's voice 
suddenly rose in pitch. "They've been eating all my friends after 
every act!" 


"They've been—" Quincy closed his mouth quickly and looked past 
the Fishman; a Freewheeler had poked its rag-doll head into the tent 
flap, and was now looking at the Fishman with its black, button eyes. 
Freewheelers had superb smell and hearing.