The night was still young, yet already several pairs had drifted from 
the comfort of the fire, to seek other comforts in the dark, private 
woods ringing the field. The angel glared at the silent trees, taking 
another pull on an almost empty beer. She drained it, then tossed it 


down, to meet a holocaust of its brothers being slowly kicked and 
stamped in to the soft dirt. She should be there, being held in warm 
arms, kissing a warm mouth...but no, she decided to run with the 
one boy who seemed to think the moment before a party was the 
best time to bring up his “worries about our relationship”. Bastard. 


The angel, now with lopsided wings, started to wander to those cool, 
dark trees. Fuck him...if he wanted to toss her aside, fine...but that 
didn't mean she wouldn't get to have fun still. She giggled a bit, 
smiling for the first time in a while. Why not have a little fun...play a 
trick, and get her treat. She laughed, the flush of wicked amusement 
and booze high in her cheeks. She'd seen one of the boys from her 
study hall wander back here...maybe she could find him, get a 

little. ..better acquainted. 


She walked in to the cooler darkness, the occasional giggle, snip of 
whisper, or a flash of glow stick the only indication of life. She 
stumbled over a root, staggering forward and bracing her hand ona 
slimy tree trunk. She yanked her hand away almost instantly, the 
gritty, oozing texture making her palm burn, the loss of support 
almost sending the angel sprawling. She squinted at her hand, 
making out a smear of gritty, fibrous jelly coating it, the burning 
getting worse as she noticed the odd pits eaten in to the trunk of the 
tree. 


The angel shivered, suddenly sober, and very aware of the fact that 
nobody knew where she was. That she knew of nobody close 
enough to even call for. She tried to rub her palm against her poofy 
skirts, not noticing the red and black smear she made on it, eyes 
wide and staring, some deep, dim part of her primordial brain ringing 
an alarm. She started to walk, quickly, focusing on the waving 
beacon of the bonfire, trying to make herself feel silly, to ignore the 
swelling, unreasoning panic. 


A twig broke behind her. 


She froze, a white shade, one hand dripping blood from a corrosive 
injury she would have been horrified about, had she looked. The 
angel didn't dare look back, but she was terrified to run, to hear 
something following, reaching, grabbing. Moments passed, filled 
with nothing, the angel finally resolving to run right at the moment 


when a thin, bony hand reached through her costume and into the 
muscles of her back like a nasty child squishing his hands into a 
cake. 


She screamed, or tried to, the sound squelched to little more then a 
harsh bark by the sheer volume of pain, limbs suddenly boneless 
and leaden, nerves dead except for agony. She felt fingers touching 
her ribs from the inside, even as they were slowly eaten away and 
corroded, her body shifting slowly to face the hand's owner. The 
flicker of the distant fire showed something withered, dark, slimy and 
pulpy-soft, but wiry and strong. Two milky-black eyes glistened at 
her in a too-large head, hovering over a frozen corpse grin, teeth 
thin and chipped. 


The pinned angel gasped and blubbered, feeling an oily, burning 
corruption seeping in to her body, trying to ignore a slow falling 
feeling, trying not to feel the ground below her turning mushy and 
soft, swallowing both figures inch by inch. It leaned closer, and 
despite the searing horror of that face, some still sane part of her 
welcomed what was surely an approaching end to her pain. It 
lingered, however, the other twisted claw of a hand rising as the 
ground started to swallow their hips. 


The new touch made the angel lucid with a new fear, her face 
locking on those rotten eyes. She recognized the shine behind them, 
and started to scream with a new, repulsed horror, even as it started 
to pull both her dress and skin away in sodden ribbons. 


Jason ran, lungs burning, trying to yell for help between sharp gasps 
of air. His Batman costume felt like such a joke now, running 
between streetlights, feeling that warm spot of pee on his pants. 
Where WAS everyone? It had been so stupid, trying to be the big 
brave kids and go out alone...now he really was alone, and his 
friends had probably been eaten. 


He didn't know this for sure, but when the boogeyman dropped out 

of a tree and started shoving kids in to a wall that was suddenly like 
quicksand, it was probably a safe bet. He hadn't even been able to 

do anything, just watch as those long, bony fingers grabbed his two 
best friends and just...yanked them away, like dolls, barely 


screaming before the squishy black wall gulped them up. The 
boogeyman, it hooked his fingers in to David's eyes like dad had 
taught him to hold a bowling ball, and... 


Jason was abruptly sick down the front of his costume, the half- 
digested mass of chocolate looking unsettlingly like the goo that had 
splattered everywhere while the tall, lanky, naked old man had 
landed out of the tree. He stopped, stumbling to his knees, coughing 
and gagging, wailing out a weak scream for help to the dim night. It 
drifted off, unheeded, the boy unable to even sob, too numb with 
exhaustion and horror. He barely noticed the footsteps until they 
were nearly on top of him. 


He looked up, ready to beg whatever adult he saw for help. Then he 
saw the legs. Thin, black, the feet looking pulpy and flat with age, 
the concrete under them turning cracked and gooey. Jason looked 
up more, shaking more and more violently. The withered hips, the 
sticky, soft chest that didn't rise or fall...and finally that nightmare 
head, looking like some kind of rotten pumpkin, but black and oily as 
a bucket of tar. The eyes locked on the boy's, as shiny and blank as 
a flashlight in a basement. The teeth parted, some kind of rolling, 
slimy blackness shifting inside. 


Jason stumbled back, gasping, trying to scream but unable to even 
breathe correctly. He stared at the boogeyman as he rolled 
something in the palm of that thin, beaten hand, pulling it between 
two bony fingers and lifting it to his mouth. The boy thought it was a 
candy or something, but then he saw the glint of metal. 


It was his best friend Anthony's front tooth. It still had the bracket 
from his braces on it. 


The boogeyman placed it between his teeth, gently, the tooth still 
white and clean in that filthy, dripping mouth. He seemed to hold it 
there a moment...then his jaw bunched, and the tooth shivered... 
then burst like a jawbreaker under a car tire. He chewed it twice, 
then just stopped, still staring at the boy. It seemed to go on and on, 
Jason unsure if he was even breathing anymore, knowing this was 
the end, this was what happened when you didn't listen, when you 
went off alone, the boogeyman came and took you, forever and 
always... 


But he didn't. He turned, seeming to get ready to take a step...then 
fell forward, slowly, like an old man tripping over a shoe. The black 
monster almost hit the ground...but just fell through it, like it was 
made of air, nothing but a black smear left behind on the concrete... 
and the tiny, corroded bracket from the tooth. 


When they found him, hours later, he'd gripped it hard enough to 
embed it in his palm. 


The boy sat, comforted and miserable. His mother had been nice 
enough to let him at least wear his Mario costume, but even he had 
to admit he was probably too sick to walk around the house, let 
alone outside for hours, in the cold. He'd woken up vomiting, and it 
had just continued, his parents hoping for the best, but finally forced 
to cancel the trick-or-treating. As sad as he was, they did try their 
best to make it up to him. There was a small bowl of candy for him, 
with the promise any leftovers would be given to him, and he could 
watch all the scary movies he liked. 


Knock knock 

“Trick or treat!” 

“Aww, such a cute turtle! And what are you, honey?” 
“I'm Rapunzel!” 

“Well, here you go, princess!” 

“Thank you!” 


He hadn't even wanted to help pass things out. It was better to just 
try and ignore things, just pretend everyone else was inside too, that 
made it better. He tugged the floppy hat down a bit, trying to 
convince himself that his tummy wasn't feeling like a hedgehog was 
rolling around inside. He watched the zombies lurch across the 
screen, half-wishing that the screaming people running for the house 
were kids from school. 


Knock knock 


“Trick or treat!” 

“Oh, what a nice vampire!” 
“I'm draculaura! Rawr!” 

“So fearsome! Here you go...” 
“Thank you!” 


He turned up the movie, the slow groans of the walking dead 
drowning out the happy shouts of the living. The worst was going to 
be tomorrow, being forced to listen to everyone, watch them eating 
candy and talking about different houses and adventures. He sighed 
and swallowed thickly, his stomach doing another slow, oily roll. The 
boy pushed away the candy he'd been nibbling, suddenly sickened 
by even the smell. 


Knock 


“ ” 


“Hello?...oh...” 


“ ” 


“Uh, are you withOHGOD!” 


The sudden, rising shriek of his mother made the boy suddenly bolt 
upright, his stomach clenching even worse, but now totally forgotten. 
He couldn't see her from the couch, but he could hear noises, 
thumping and muffled shouts...and some kind of slimy-sounding 
rustle, like sewage over dry leaves. He stood, and started to peer 
around the short wall blocking the entryway, calling with a hesitant 
voice, scared of not getting a response, but almost equally so of 
getting one. He was only a few feet away when the hand whipped 
around the wall, gripping it tight. 


lt was black-gray and thin, as bony and thin-skinned as his 
grandmother's, with wide, flat nails gripping the paint hard. Where it 
touched, a black stain was spreading, like grease on a paper bag, 
the knuckles looking puffy and thick as they flexed. The boy stared, 


Addendum: Human testing with SCP-660 is suspended due to the 
sudden death of D-778 from teratoma with malignant transformation. 
I've seen fetus in fetu before, but never have | had one try to grab 
my probe during an autopsy. - Dr. Grayson 


« SCP-659 | SCP-660 | SCP-661 » 


backing up slowly, calling again for his mother, his voice starting to 
plead. The hand flexed, actually sinking into the wall as that stain 
spread, and a nightmare peeped around the corner. 


The head was thick, misshapen and lumpy, like a poorly made 
scarecrow, the skin thin and jelly-like. Two hard, glistening eyes the 
color of maggots stared from above the thin, wide slash of a mouth. 
Their eyes locked, and the boy felt fear wash from his head down to 
his feet, his stomach boiling like a forgotten kettle. His nerves 
screamed to run, to run away, but he couldn't make himself stop 
watching those eyes, feet moving slowly backwards like a 
sleepwalker. The hand and face shifted a bit, and there was a wet, 
heavy dragging noise as his mother was pulled in to view. 


She was dead, or close to it, moved forward by the hand in her 
chest like a sock puppet, bits of her black and pulpy, smears of that 
black stain eating in to her face, her neck, her arms. Her chest was 
a black, jelly-coated hole, the thing's other hand buried in it up to the 
wrist, the bloodless, ruined remains of his mother hanging from it 
like a rag doll. He screamed, then threw up, little more then a mass 
of bile and half-digested snacks, then ran, shrieking up the stairs, 
begging for his mother, his father, anyone, someone. 


He slammed into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door, 
shaking and crying. His dad had gone down the street to visit, he'd 
be home any second, and he'd fix this, somehow. He'd call the cops, 
or something, get them out of the house, leave that black thing far 
behind. Maybe mom was just hurt, people could get really hurt and 
still be fine, he'd only seen her a few seconds. That thing was just 
some psycho in some costume, he'd probably run off as soon as he 
heard someone coming, and it'd be ok then, it'd be fine. He kept 
whispering this to himself, feet braced on the sink, back against the 
door. 


He was still repeating it when the face pushed through the wood 
above him. 


He heard the crackle, and looked up, to see that hell face looking 
down, inches above his head. The floor under his feet suddenly felt 
sludgy and soft as he stared, the mouth splitting open, to let a 
tongue as rotten and bloated as a dead fish roll free...and down... 


and down, sliding down onto that horrified face like a syrup, burning 
even as he felt his legs sinking down and down, unable to even 
move really as that soft, slimy flesh burned like an acid in to his face, 
feeling his nose cook down like an over-used eraser, screaming just 
long enough to catch a few feet of that endless tongue in his mouth, 
gagging hard before the nerves died, starting to pass out as he felt 
the nightmare tasting his eyes. 


Drak awoke feeling like he'd been sleeping on a pile of rusty car 
parts. He sat up, twisting and trying to locate the source of the 
throbbing pain in his leg, that...memory started to flood back, hitting 
like a freight train. Running across town. Slamming through a crowd, 
seeing the withered, crumbling arm laying on the ground. Screams. 
People running. That horrible black face sliding from the ground, 
eyes locked on his. Parks firing. More screams. A withered hand 
reaching, gripping, pulling... 


Oh god no. 


He looked around in welling horror, pleading with his own brain to lie 
to him. The room was dark, dirty, and low-ceilinged, tufts of dirt and 
debris in the corners, the grayish paint peeling in ragged streamers, 
the stained ceiling and floor warped and lumpy. A doorway opened 
in to darkness, a vague, insistent noise sounding from far off. The 
light was dim, but didn't seem to come from anywhere, seeming just 
a weak, omnipresent glow with a slightly green cast, like deep ocean 
water. 


Drak knew this room, even though he'd never been here. At least, 
ones very much like it. The old man liked to dump his new catches 
here before he...found them. Drak rose quickly, hunching down to 
avoid a sagging bulge of ceiling. He barely wanted his shoes 
touching this place, let alone anything else. He winced, feeling a 
dull, empty ache in his leg, high in the calf. Probably where it 
grabbed him...and damned if he was going to check it. He limped a 
few steps, making sure it could bear weight, eyes sweeping over 
every surface. 


He breathed slow, deeply, remembering the file, the brief. Time was 
subjective, he could have been out for seconds or weeks. It liked to 


play cat and mouse, tracking through its...home, or playroom, or 
whatever the fuck it was. Space was endless, but sometimes people 
got out, or were released. Keep moving, don't hide, because it was 
god here and would know. He felt panic slithering around the edges 
of his brain, and pushed it down, hard, face set and grim as he 
stepped out in to the darkness beyond the doorway. 


The hall was long, and broken, like a hospital hallway after an 
earthquake. No big holes, just twisted and tilted oddly. He creeped 
down, as close to a wall as he could get without touching it, feeling 
gritty plaster crunch under his feet. The noise was louder, the sound 
of high-pitched, monotonous crying. It set the teeth on edge, but 
they'd said it would be like this. The key was to keep moving, keep 
looking. Yes, it was endless, but if you kept on the move, it seemed 
like 106 got confused, or lost track of things, and you could 
accidentally wander back in to the world. He kept repeating the 
steps, the briefing in his head like a prayer, ignoring the part where 
106 would typically hunt escapees forever.