You are going to be an amazing writer. 
You swig your soda. 
A world changing writer, according to the traveler. 


Another swig, and you set the can down on your desk. Your 
computer hasn't even had time to go to sleep. 


And that artwork. You'd never seen a writer who had connected his 
covers like that. The spines, sure, but the books themselves? 


The cursor blinks at you, almost accusatorily. You ignore it. You 
know you're going to be great. You saw your name spread across 
the entire series. 


So why can’t you think of a single thing to write? 


You Never Visit Me Anymore 


My daughter is dead. 
What else can be said, what else can be told but the story? 
She was a writer. 


An unsuccessful one, she called herself. Her agent struggled to get 
her work published — it was dark, morbid, how could the general 
public bear the blackness that seeped from the pages? 


| thought she was successful. Beautiful. Hard working. Loving. | 
didn’t care that her work wasn't out there, it was perfect to me. 


She would share, so excitedly, some new work — a poem, a story, a 
monologue. She pushed page after page into my hands, always 
littered with notes and lines under words, in red Sharpie. Comments 
to herself that made me laugh or cry, little things that she told herself 
to do, or not do, or change, or make darker, or kill off. 


| should have seen it coming. 


When she had no paper, she would write on her arms with the 
Sharpie. Temporary tattoos of ideas that made sense only to herself 
— | can only imagine what people walking down the street thought 
when they saw those doodles all over her right arm. 


She had red Sharpie words on her arm when they found her, 
slumped on a bench, on the edge of the lake, near our home. Words 
that made sense only to herself; no note, nothing coherent, no 
explanation. 


She died in a beautiful but lonely place — | visited it, after the wake, 
in the dusk. There was no path to it— | pushed my way through 
brambles and nettles, tore my black mourning dress, trod in dog shit 
in my high heels and ducked under looming branches. 


But when | reached the clearing, | saw why she chose it. 


A bench overlooking the peaceful lake, trees hiding her away, it was 
so quiet. | could hear every thought in my head, | could see the 
peaceful ripples on the water, and | felt no-one else would know | 
was here. 


The beautiful spot was only marred by rubbish — it was obviously so 
overgrown that the litter pickers forgot it was here and there were 
cigarettes, gum wrappers, cans, all on the ground. When | looked 
closer | saw, somewhat buried in the dirt, her choice of death — 
empty packets of pills, paracetamol mainly. 


She must have stocked up, visited pharmacy after pharmacy, buying 
three packets at a time as the law allows. 


She must have had time to think about it. To really know what she 
was doing. To stop herself. To ask for help. To talk to me. 


But she didn't. 


She sat alone on the bench, dressed in her favourite outfit, the 
clothes we buried her in. What was she thinking — it took time, it 
wasn’t quick, it wasn’t easy. She must have thought something. 
Anything. She must have hesitated, regretted it, thought of me. 


... right? 


Pill after pill, washed down with Honey Jack Daniels. | didn’t know 
she could drink whisky; | didn’t realise how bad it all was. | didn’t 
know until after she died that she drank every day, that she was 
drunk when she was with me, that every photo of her smiling came 
with a shot of vodka, or whisky, or rum, or whatever she could 
afford. 


| wonder what her last thought was. 


Was it the pain of her liver, as it reacted to the toxins she was 
pouring into herself? Or the crippling tightening of her kidneys 
failing? Did she really feel nothing, as the doctors reassured me, 
and did she think about me? Her nephew, her brother, her sister-in- 
law, her father, her friends? Or just herself, alone in that hidden 


Audio from the outside world fades away as camera 
angles itself down and peers into the darkness within the 
sinkhole. After approximately two minutes of descent 
lights on the drone activate and illuminate a roughly dug 
shaft. Initially it is unclear what could have created the 
hole, but at a glance it would appear the shaft was 
created by a single event rather than dug over time. 


At ~15m descent there are traces of SCP-610 material 
attached to the dirt and stuck to rocks. The material is 
dormant but retains its texture and appearance, unlike 
samples from above ground level, which shrivel and dry 
rapidly. There is a possible connection with this material 
and the events last recorded during SCP-610-L3. 
Descent continues. 


At ~100m in depth branch tunnels become visible in the 
walls of the sink hole. Panning of the camera reveals 
small tunnels branching out at apparently random 
intervals but which are not restricted to any one side of 
the hole. These tunnels are considered too small for any 
useful exploration to occur. Descent continues. Increase 
in density of SCP-610 materials on walls is noted as 
depth increases. 


At ~250m the bottom of the sinkhole becomes visible 
and the tunnel slopes sharply suggesting unnatural 
formation, which was already suspected. Drone video 
shifts to illuminate this tunnel and drone proceeds 
forward through the area. SCP-610 coats entirety of the 
tunnel now and care is taken to keep the drone from 
coming in contact with any surface. Movement is 
detected ~5m ahead. Lights on the drone are dimmed 
and weapons come on line. 


The RSCP610 drone is equipped with a 5.56mm machine gun 
containing 50 rounds of ammo. This is meant to be used to deter 
wildlife away from the drone and defend against aggression when 
possible rather than to dispatch a target, although it is fully capable 
of handling human aggressors in small groups. 


place, achieving what she wanted? 
Did she regret it? 


It was a dog that found her. The path wasn’t clear to humans, but an 
overexcited dog exploring found it easily. She loved animals; | like to 
think she wanted a dog to find her first, rather than a human. 


She'd just died, they said. Maybe half an hour before the dog owner 
phoned for an ambulance. She could have been saved, even if her 
organs were damaged. Too damaged to even donate, too damaged 
to even save someone else. 


We buried her at the church near our house, close enough so | 
could walk there every day. The funeral was packed — she was truly 
loved, she had close friends who sobbed openly as they stood and 
talked about her, laughed at the memories, cried at the fact she was 
gone. | didn’t speak. | couldn’t speak. The priest spoke on my 
behalf, and it was strange hearing my thoughts coming from his 
mouth, coming from a man who didn’t know her. 


Her grave was simple. “Memento Mori”, it said, because that’s all 
that could be read clearly on her arm in red Sharpie at the beauty 
spot. “Remember you will die” — it seemed fitting. Almost poetic. But 
the grave itself was nothing special — no angels or frills or crosses. 


When the funeral was over, and life was supposed to go back to 
normal, | couldn’t settle. No-one was surprised, but no-one knew 
what to say either. What do you say to someone who had lost a 

child? 


So | visited her every day. Once a week | brought flowers; once 
every other week | brought a copy of her work, and read it out loud, 
even the notes to herself that made me chuckle. | told her how life 
was still going on, how her baby nephew was starting to talk, how he 
could point out his auntie in photos of her. We told him all about her, 
| said, because she’s still here with us. 


Every day, | visited for the first year. Even when life truly went back 
to normal, and | went back to work, | would visit. Her father visited 
less often — he seemed to channel his grief into working hard, 


getting a promotion, proving himself somehow as if that would 
replace his lost child. | didn’t know how to talk to him about it, so | 
didn’t. Our marriage became a quiet habit, with an empty space that 
was impossible to fill. 


But then life just continued on. My work got more intense and | 
needed to work more hours; my grandson was starting preschool 
and my daughter-in-law needed help taking him back and forth; my 
back, which had always been bad, started getting worse... 


| could make a hundred excuses as to why | didn’t visit her anymore. 
Straight after the funeral | promised myself, | promised her, | 
wouldn't let her grave become like some of the others — knocked 
over by vandals or sheer bad luck, overgrown with weeds. 


She just became a memory, the physical image of her grave faded 
away as life went on without her. It just did. It seemed impossible 
when you lost a child that you could continue — but you just did. 


| remember when it happened. 


| was at the table with my grandson, his little legs dangling on the 
chair that was too big for him. He was telling me excitedly about 
playing with sand at preschool and | was nodding along, because | 
couldn't get a word in edgeways. 


There was the rattle of the letterbox. 


| thought it strange at first, because it was the afternoon — the 
postman had been and gone. | dismissed it as junk mail from some 
takeaway place and went back to listening to my grandson, now 
talking about when the teacher was telling them about shapes. 


| left him drawing shapes and practicing writing his name as | did 
some chores: Folded clothes, wiped down the kitchen counter, and 
then headed upstairs to put something away. 


This meant going past the front door, so | reminded myself of the 
junk mail that was surely there, so | could bin it instantly. 


| put the clothes basket at the foot of the stairs and went to the mat 
at the front door. 


It wasn’t a leaflet, | realised. It looked more like a note on beige 
paper. Maybe it was from a neighbour — sometimes they had 
barbeques in the summer and were polite enough to tell us so we 
wouldn't hang out clothes that would come back smelling of smoke. 


| bent down to pick it up, and realised the texture was weird — 
squishy almost, and warm to the touch. My hand came away bloody, 
and | realised the ‘note’ was covered in fine hairs. 


It wasn’t paper. 


It was a slip of skin, deep enough to have been cut down to the 
muscle, thick and heavy and warm. | think the heat bothered me 
most, with this disembodied piece of flesh. 


| closed my eyes tight as the room span, but | clutched the chunk of 
skin tightly regardless. 


Written in red Sharpie, on top of all the fine hair that dusted her 
arms, were the words — 


“You never visit me anymore”. 


Surprise! Happy Birthday! 


Ahh, Gears. Good to see you again. 


Another year has come and gone. A year older. A year 
wiser. A year of your youth ground away in the mill of 
eternity. So, to commemorate this happiest of days: 
Tales! Tales of horror. Of suspense. Of moral ambiguity 
and cruelty. Of truncated kindnesses, and missing 
people, and maybe even a song and dance number. 
Tales with two faces, stories that don't and do mean at 
the same time, and the occasional tug at the heart string. 
Stories of men with needle teeth, or a horse who tells the 
future, or a duck whose quack echoes. Perhaps a skull 
who speaks all your fears, the tomb of the Czar's dead 
wives, or a chandelier made of bones. Who can say? All 
| can tell you for sure is... 


Happy Birthday...! And many more. 


Stitches 


She ran her fingers over the needlework, smiling down at 
her finished labor. It looked so beautiful, so carefully 
arranged... And it was. It really, really was. 


She’d taken her time with this one. It wasn’t like the 
dozens of other cross-stitchings she’d worked on over 
the years, all the samplers and patterns she’d completed 
and discarded. Box after box of the stupid things were 
sitting in her attic, all working towards this one. Those 
were just practice; a past time. This one was a true thing 
of beauty... 


He was still murmuring, still trying to move the tongue 
that was no longer there. It would have ruined the 


elegant long-stitches over his lips. Even worse would 
have been the screaming, but the wires laced through 
his jaw took care of that. His hands were perfectly 
stitched together with French loops, looking almost 
elegant in their flowing pattern. He was beautiful. She 
smiled softly, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. 


“Are you ready, hun? | have to do your eyes next...” she 
said, stroking the bulge straining at the front of his pants. 
He looked up at her, blinking for one of the last times, his 
bright blue eyes looking soft and wet... 


And nodded eagerly. 


Kindness 


We'd been deployed to some place in some little country 
whose name | can't spell. Place used to be part of the 
Soviet Union before it fell to pieces. We were at a tiny 
village, just on the crest of a beautiful cliff. At least, it was 
beautiful if you could ignore the pile of fresh corpses at 
the bottom. 


It was like they had all just up and walked off the edge, 
like lemmings. Everyone in the village. It was our job to 
find out why. We went in in full Hazmat suits, to be safe. 
All the houses were empty, as if their occupants had just 
stepped out for a while. It was creepy. Only place left 
was the church. My partner and | drew the short straw, 
and went in. It was a simple, one-room affair, with a dirt 
floor. There were some sticks and rocks littered around 
the altar, so we moved in closer, to check behind it. 


That's where we found him. 


The poor boy was wearing rags, covered in bruises and 
cuts, and | realised that there was dried blood on some 
of the stones and branches around him. He couldn't have 
been more than seven years old. He looked up at me 
with the widest, saddest, most terrified eyes I've ever 


seen. They weren't human eyes. They were too yellow. 


He was clawing at his own throat. The boy had wickedly 
sharp nails, but his tolerance to pain wasn't high enough 
for him to bring them close enough to sever anything 
vital. A choked sob escaped him, and those impossibly- 
wide eyes widened even more. He gasped, and clamped 
both his bloodied hands over his mouth. That's when | 
really noticed the feathers. They were growing forward 
out of his wrists, sticking out over the backs and sides of 
his hands. Was he what caused this, or was he a victim, 
too? 


“What happened?” | asked in my best Russian, which 
wan't very good. He shook his head, eyes never leaving 
mine. My partner was already radioing in for backup and 
medical assistance. 


“This is Six. We found... something behind the altar. 
Humanoid. It's injured.” 


Good old Ashley. Always so cold and professional. | 
know | should be, too, but... | mean, | can do my job, you 
know, but sometimes | find myself feeling sorry for the 
weird creatures we lock up. Some of 'em, anyway. This 
kid's... almost human... right? 


The med fellas came in, along with the rest of the 
containment team. Emmy had gotten her memo pad out 
again, probably scribbling down information that was 
gonna go in the mission report later, when the boy 
reached out toward her. The kid instantly had at least 
four guns trained at his head. He shrank back against 
the side of the altar. 


“Dammit, guys!” Eddy — he was one of the med fellas — 
snapped at them. “I'm trying to bandage this thing's neck, 
which is kinda hard when it's moving around.” 


Emmy must have given the kid an idea, because he 
started looking around. He picked one of the smaller 


sticks and started scrawling something in the dirt with it. 
The scritch-scratch of Emmy's pen doubled in speed, 
and | could hear her footsteps as she walked around the 
altar so she can get a better look. 


ws 


she translated aloud as he wrote. “Not intend 
” She paused a moment. 


“Sorry, 
hurt. Scared. Sorry sorry sorry. 
“The thing's got bad grammar.”