Disbelief. Morris paused. He blanked for a few seconds, feeling his 
throat tighten as his mind searched for the correct path. His mouth 
was dry, even after he drank the generic cola crap. He felt the pen 
chained to the clipboard fall out of his hands and slide down the 
paper, dangling off the board. 


“F-fake? SCP 2006, | assure you, what he felt was real. You are the 
best at scaring! | almost died from fear earlier! I-l, Y-you-” 


The clown giggled in a gruff, menacing tone. He took a step towards 
him. Morris stepped backwards. He felt the cold enamel walls of the 
cell brush against the elbows of his coat. 


“Dr. Armin Morris, born February 19th, 1980. Blood type A negative. 
Parents, divorced. | knew all that when you walked in. | don’t smell 
fear. | smell everything. And | know where that stain came from. 
Both stains, Dr. Morris. | also know Dr. Kilpatrick felt real fear when 
he began to choke on his own blood. It was like nectar. Water to a 
man in the desert. That’s actual fear that | smelt. But | don’t just 
smell these things, | understand them, too. A lot of things.” 


Armin had never understood what people meant when they say time 
slows to a crawl. Every second passed with the feeling of pure fear. 
A hot, rancid sweat tingling with adrenaline ran in rivulets down his 
back. He was soon aware of how small the cell was. How close the 
clown was to him. How close those teeth were. 


“You think I’m ignorant? You think | have no knowledge of what’s 
outside my cell? This chamber's sealed, yes, but | can use my eyes 
in spite of it. | smelled a lot of things. Senior Researcher Crusoe’s 
fake concern. The Camera Tech’s worry about his mother’s cancer. 
I’ve been around for so long, I’d forgotten what it was like to wallow 
in the fear of an entire village, and this is very close.” 


Morris wanted to get out. But he was a cornered animal here. The 
doors behind SCP-2006 had shut, and the control room was, to his 
assumption, in a state of mass panic from what they’d heard. They 
couldn't let him out, it would risk a breach. If they risked a breach of 
an intelligent entity, they risked a breach of every item contained 
within. Morris’s knees locked, stale. He felt small. So small. 


“It’s been so long since I’ve smelled genuine fear. So long since I’ve 
peered out of closets. So long since the rustling trees and rainy 
windows. So long.” 


Morris thumbed the intercom button on his two-way radio. 
“Pull me out.” 


He depressed the direct line. He knew they heard. That button 
broadcast his message across the observation room. They wouldn't 
pull him out. Not yet. 


But to his disbelief, it wasn’t but seconds later that the doors to the 
lock opened. SCP-2006 stepped aside, gesturing at the open 
archway like a carnival ringleader at the main attraction. In the same 
moment, the light cut out. 


Doctor Morris screamed. Before too much time had passed. The 
emergency amber lights had kicked on, showing the room he was in 
empty, save for himself. He fell to his knees, and scrambled away 
from the room. Both sets of doors were open. 


The observation hub was a mess. The intercom repeating the same 
autogenerated containment breach warning. All monitors displayed: 
“CORE POWER OFFLINE - REVERTING TO SOLID STATE TO 
RETAIN FILE INTEGRITY”. The evac lights illuminated the room in 
flashes. Morris pulled himself up, seeing the orgy sprawled on the 
floor. 


Crusoe's body slumped against the collage of monitors. An arterial 
spray served as the arrow to her slashed neck. A guard crumpled 
into the fetal position next to the sealed door, his P90 clutched in his 
hands, unfired. Armin felt the warm syrup and corrosive bile pull 
itself from his stomach. He doubled over, wet retching onto the 
linoleum. 


Addendum: SCP-2006 breached containment on //20 .We now 
understand that SCP-2006 can manifest in multiple locations at 
once. While personnel may believe they’re conversing with the 
“Face” entity, referred to as SCP-2006-1, SCP-2006 is capable of 
creating an unknown number of secondary entities, labeled as 


SCP-2006-X. Possible redraft of containment procedures requested 
in light of recent events, as well as the loss of Senior Researcher 
, Assistant Researcher __, and assorted staff. 


In other news, 


The following document was mailed to Agent Green's 
father, with instructions to forward it to his son, along 
with the message "Hast wir eine Gecoolen yet?". The 
sender has not been identified. 


Item #: Fire officials say at least 8 injured as vehicle hits students 
outside California high school. 


Object Class: A squeeze play that works two ways. 


Special Containment Procedures: Md., Va. motorists warned to 
stay away if possible from Wilson Bridge this weekend. The Root 
DC Live : Things to do May 24 to June 7. UK Supreme Court backs 
extradition of WikiLeaks chief. UN rights council to hold special 
session Friday on Syrian massacre in Houla. 


Description: Police in both parts of Ireland launch crackdown on 
prostitution, raid brothels islandwide. Capital Weather Gang : 
Oklahoma City pounded by severe weather Tuesday, and more on 
the way today. Resolution praising feds has bleak future. What 
California's lieutenant governor thinks of Project Glass after trying 
them on. Chen Guangcheng, now in U.S., poised to play role in yet 
another abortion debate. 


Cook's scoreless streak ends with Morneau's tying double in 8th; 
Twins take down A's 5-4. Logmill Road project, site of fatalities, is 
delayed. Capital Buzz: Parature's former chief executive reprises 
role. Past Romney critics praise his jobs record on Sunday talk 
shows. French Open's defending champion, Li Na of China, adjusts 
to new status as title holder. A quiz on 'Coppelia,' presented by the 
Bolshoi Ballet at the Kennedy Center. 


The high cost of savings. 


Addendum: ‘More politics than faith’ in bishops’ religious freedom 
campaign? To fast or not? London Olympics forcing Muslim athletes 
to consider delaying Ramadan fast. Missile Defense! Where should 
they put the East Coast site? (A Loop contest). Who will invent the 
future? 


I'm almost positive they're just fucking with us.- Dr. Carlisle 


In Search Of Lost Antigo 


To whoever might read this manuscript; greetings to thee, well met 
and well come. | pray for your safety, for if you have found this 
document, you are surely in grave danger yourself. | say this not to 
frighten nor intimidate you, but because it is true; you should not 
linger here, for the price this place demands is beyond the ability of 
you, or any man, to pay. It is with the last of my strength that | have 
written this account, which you have surely found laying beside my 
mortal remains, for | lack the strength now to flee this accursed 
domain, and it is with my dying strokes that | wish to warn whoever 
finds this text that to venture one step further into this eldritch 
demesne is to forfeit existence. 


It was in Cleveland that | was born; it was but a newborn town of 
less than a thousand in those days, but a metropolis of thousands 
once | had ascended to manhood. My father himself had emigrated 
there from farther east, and impressed in me from my earliest years 
the importance of taming this New World; it was the destiny, he said, 
of our nation and our race to claim this land. | heeded his words, and 
once | had attained my majority, | traveled west; first to Missouri, 
and then later to Kansas, to Wyoming, into the Mexican holdings 
that would soon become Texas, and at last into the land of 
California, where | found myself following my father's footsteps in 
the mercantile profession. | had taken up residence in the town of 
Los Cavernes, a white settlement that roosted astride a lake in the 
inner regions of that golden state, some days' travel over the 
mountain passes from Los Angeles where the merchant ships 
docked to sell their cargo of goods from more civilised lands. There 
was many a man more desperate than | who was willing to drive 
teams of mules over the pass carrying the goods purchased from 
those ships, and upon arriving they were more than willing to sell 
those sundries to myself for more than twice what they had paid for 
them, that | might then sell them to the pioneers and farmers and 
prospectors for twice again that price. This enterprise had proved 
quite salubrious, and so it was that by the year of Our Lord 


Eighteen-Hundred-And-Fifty-One | was already the wealthiest man 
in Los Cavernes. 


It was upon the twenty-sixth day of May in that year that that 
damned traveler arrived. It was midday, and | was taking my 
luncheon in the general store | had established and financed, when 
a great hullabaloo came from without that a wounded man had 
shambled into town. | stood aghast as this poor soul staggered 
through the batwing doors of that establishment and begged for a 
cup of cold water. He was dressed as one might expect an explorer 
of these great western lands to be, his leathers seasoned and 
weathered well enough, but it was not his garb that caught my 
attention, but the constitution of his countenance - his flesh was drier 
than | have ever seen even on the sickest of men, wrinkled, mottled, 
and blistered all over as if he had passed through the fires of Hades 
itself. There was not a single hair upon him, and as he turned to me 
to speak, | espied that his gums were raw and bare, as if every one 
of his teeth had been pried loose from his jaws just minutes before. 


| demanded that the barkeep fetch him some water, and he drank 
greedily of it as he laid flat on the floor. | begged he tell me what was 
the cause of his complaint, and he answered me thus; "I've been to 
Lost Antigo, my friend. | bought a map off an old Spaniard that led 
me there. The damned place is cursed. Whatever's there isn't worth 
your life. The map's in my pocket. Burn it with the rest of me so no 
one else tries to find that foul place." He had barely finished 
sputtering out those words before he convulsed one last time and 
then laid still, having gone to his final rest. 


Lost Antigo! The name is known far and wide across the west, by 
the white race as well as the Mexicanos and the Indians. The name 
has been known since long before Columbus came to the New 
World, and all the tribes of this land, the Navajo, the Hopi, the 
Yualapi, the Dumi, the Kumayai, the Havasupai, all tell the same 
tale; centuries ago, long before the white man found its way to this 
land, there stood a city in the desert that possessed wealth and 
knowledge far beyond any that the nations of red men could 
comprehend. It was their hubris, the legends said, that was their 
undoing; they failed to understand the limits of the power the Great 
Spirit had lent to them, and it turned against them in time, laying 


radioactivity inside D-class, suggesting [DATA EXPUNGED] 
Notes: That's certainly interesting. The mechanisms must be slightly 
different. -Dr. 


Experiment Log 876-A-9 

Procedure: One pill from SCP-876-40 (zirconium) and one from 
SCP-876-80 (mercury) placed side-by-side, colors aligned. 
Capsules are visually identical, colors and . Both pills placed 
under a microscope. 

Results: Despite extensive analysis, no difference between the pills 
could be visually determined. Identities of pills were not recorded, so 
it is not known which corresponds to which element See Experiment 
Log 876-A-10. 

Notes: Pay attention to which one is which next time. -Dr. 


Experiment Log 876-A-10 

Procedure 1: Unidentified pills from Experiment 876-A-9 were 
weighed. 

Result 1: Significant discrepancy in mass. This is attributed to a 
difference in density of the contents. 

Procedure 2: Mercury-zirconium amalgam administered to D-class. 
Heavier pill administered, followed by lighter pill. D-class then 
sedated and stomach dissected to retrieve amalgam. 

Result 2: Amalgam changed into a lump of zirconium. 


them to waste. The ruins of Lost Antigo, so the natives say, still 
stand somewhere amidst the dunes of the Mohave, and within them 
lay treasures far greater than the avarice of man can contemplate; 
vast stockpiles of gold and silver, great pits of mercury, stores of 
aluminium that would fetch a king's ransom, and texts of 
unimaginable value that captured the description of that bygone 
empire, an antedeluvian civilisation unknown to man that surely 
answered mysteries that the greatest scientists of our age had 
barely begun to contemplate. 


| did not heed that poor old fool's dying wish; for before he was 
taken to be buried, | scavenged his pockets and found the map he 
had spoken of with his dying breaths. It described a trail, unknown to 
the white man but surely the last remnant of some ancient highway, 
that began from Salton City, barely a day's travel from the saloon in 
which | stood, and lead therefrom northeast into the Mohave 
towards the dry bed of a primaeval lake, where an X was marked 
with the notation "AntigUe Perdido - ausentarse de". 


Could this map be authentic? Could the words of this dying man be 
true? My mind swam with the possibilities - if Lost Antigo were real, 
if this map truly lead to it, if | could follow it and find that place - it 
would be a feat of legend! The treasures to be found there, both of 
mineral wealth, and the writings of that lost civilisation - would be 
worth millions of dollars, and would be the envy of every scholar in 
the world. History would remember me as the man who discovered 
Lost Antigo and taught all of mankind about the bygone race that 
inhabited that land and all their discoveries and tales. Schoolchildren 
would learn my name alongside that of Columbus. | thought little of 
that dead man's claims of curses and the legends of damnation 
placed upon that site. My path was clear; | had no choice but to 
organize an expedition to follow the route on that unfortunate 
traveler's map until we either came to naught or found Lost Antigo. 


It was a scant three weeks before we embarked. The news of the 
map's discovery had traveled far and wide across the land, and men 
rushed eagerly from Los Angeles and San Diego and the Tiahuana 
country wishing to join the expedition and claim their share of the 
profits. We set out on the sixteenth of June; the sun was blazing, 
and the air was hot and dry, but we had plenty of water to spare until 


the trail bade us part from the Colorado's raging banks. The barrels 
we carried in the wagon trains were ample enough, but some of the 
men despaired and turned back as we blazed our path farther into 
the Mohave's desolate plains. On the sixth day after we left the 
riverbank, a large contingent of the men despaired that we were 
sure to die of thirst if we ventured on farther, and turned back 
towards Los Cavernes. | wonder if they ever made it back alive, 
considering the events that transpired thereafter, for it was only a 
day later that we set our camp on the outskirts of the ruins of Lost 
Antigo. 


It was a Spaniard named Miguel who first shouted that he espied 
something not carved by Nature's hand. We approached and 
confirmed his suspicion; it was the very tip of a concrete obelisk, 
jutting barely a foot above the desert sand. It took us a matter of 
days thereafter to journey onward, during which time we lost several 
more of the men - there were complaints of intestinal distress, and 
some of the men began to exhibit symptoms similar to those the 
man bearing the map had exhibited; their hair began to thin, their 
teeth loosened as if afflicted by scurvy, they grew weak. A large 
number of them fled on the third day after we espied the first obelisk, 
after seven men had died of that mysterious illness.