When | take a step back, my boot sinks deep into that thick carpet. | 


look down. It's not just brown; there's streaks of black, gold — even 
an occasional wispy curl of copper-red. Something about it catches 
my eye. | crouch down to examine the fibers. They're fine — too 
fine. The material is... 


Hair. 


My eyes drift to that grotesquely pink wall. | start to notice the 
imperfections — blemishes, pock-marks, scars... beauty marks. 


Skin. It's made of goddamn skin. 


| close my eyes, grab hold of that tether, and climb as fast as | can. | 
feel myself slip through — 


— a world of rotting, putrid flesh filled with the deafening roar of 
billions upon billions of buzzing flies, gathered into blankets of 
writhing black so dense they blot out the sky — 


— an abandoned factory so immense that it contains all of Chicago, 
contains the entire sky, contains the sun itself — 


— Chicago, but choked with smoke and flame; the sound of gunfire 
rattling off in the distance, with every single door throughout the city 
flung open wide — 


—asea of screaming faces, all squeezed together so tightly that 
they constantly burst into a bright pink-red pulp, only to reform an 
instant later — 


— and then — 
— I'm in what looks like a hospital room. There's only one door, and 


it's behind me; solid steel. It looks like the sort of thing you'd use to 
keep the monsters out. 


A wizened old woman stands in front of me, cloaked in dark fabric. 


Or maybe it's for keeping the monsters in. 


| point my .45 straight at her ugly mug. "Alright, lady. Talk." I'm trying 
to pull on my tether, but it's not working. | can't sense it — as if it's 
just been snipped. 


Her eyes brighten with amusement. Something snakes its way out 
from beneath her clothes — it looks like... hair. Dozens and dozens 
of strands of gray hair, writhing out past her feet and slowly 
extending across the floor. 


She clucks her tongue. "Really, now. You don't recognize me? After 
you went through so much trouble to find me." 


Iga Volodya. My eyes narrow. "Your face is different. Also? Pretty 
sure you're dead." 


"| have many faces. More than there are stars in the sky." She 
chortles to herself, then grins. Her teeth gleam like a platter full of 
steak-knives. "Today you have seen two. Perhaps — if you are very 
clever — you will see more." 


Alarms shriek around us. The room is flooded with a bright, flashing 
red light. 


"But enough reminiscing. | did not pull you here to chatter. We have 
business to attend to, you and I. Follow me — | will show you the 
way back to your precious city, Yashenka." 


She turns, and we — 


— are back in Chicago. The city is in a state of decay. Buildings 
have come crashing down; cars are flung over to their sides, torn 
asunder. The streets are covered in rubble. 


In the distance, | see the Roanoke Building. It's littered with dozens 
of human-sized holes, with the contents of each room dangling out 
like flapping tongues. | feel a dry, scorching wind blowing against my 
back. A strange force tugs at me — drawing me toward the source 
of that heat. 


Iga Volodya walks ahead, moving with a surreal calm. 


| look back. The sky is a horrible shade of tangerine; in the distance 
— far past the city — there is a bright, burning light. It is toward this 
light | feel myself being pulled. 


| turn to Iga. A newspaper brushes past my ankle; | catch the 
snippet of a headline before it blows away. 


MYSTERIOUS FORCE DRAWS CORPSES TOWARD— 

We keep walking. "What the hell is this?" 

"Have you ever thought about how many ways the world can end?" 
"Is that what this is? The end?" 


"It is every end." She looks back to me with that horrible grin. "And 
do you know why none of them have come to pass?" 


| open my mouth to reply, and — 


— we're standing in a kitchen. A family of four sits in front of us, 
preparing to enjoy a warm meal. 


But the family isn't right. They aren't people — not anymore. They're 
made of pink, pulsating flesh; heaps of it, piled into the vague 
semblance of human beings. Too many arms, too few legs. Bulging 
mounds of meat that throb with every heartbeat. 


The food is the same. Plates full of quivering tumors, spreading their 
tendrils out across the table. To my left, | think | see the family dog 
— just a mound of rolling, convulsing muscle. It extends a ribbon- 
like ‘tongue’ out to lick at a bow! filled with wriggling, squealing 
tissue. 


Iga Volodya surveys the scene beside me. She looks annoyed. 
"Your work?" | ask. 
"People always think so. But no — we did not do this." 


"We'?" 


She looks to me. "Practitioners of Nalka. The Children of lon." 
"Sarkites." 

She nods. "Like yourself." 

| tighten my grip on the .45. "I ain't one of you." 


The flesh around us stirs. Although they have no eyes, the family 
seems to have noticed us. A deep, dark, hateful growl emerges from 
their bodies. | point my pistol at the biggest one. 


"But you are, Yashenka. You see it just as clearly as me. The 
corruption. The wrongness. And you fight it." 


With a horrible, gurgling roar, the family lunge to their feet. | squeeze 
the trigger, and — 


— I'm pointing my gun at a wall. We're back on the city streets. It's 
night-time; there are people here, running past us and yelling. | 
glance behind me — we're standing in front of the Chicago Theater. 
| can hear the sounds of screams coming from inside. 


"Again: Do you know why these ends do not come to pass?" 


A man in a suit leads a squad of police past us, charging for the 
theater's doors. They're packing serious heat — and their faces are 
all business. | turn to the city skyline. It's dark, but | can make out 
distant fires. The screams aren't just coming from inside the theater. 
| think | hear them everywhere. All around us. 


My eyes drift toward the theater's marquee: 
FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY — THE HANGED KING, LIVE ON RADIO 


"They do not come because they are ends. Because to end is to 
cease. And our suffering is not meant to cease. Our suffering is to 
be eternal." 


| turn back to her, lowering my pistol. "You done with the 
cryptograms, grandma?" 


She smiles, exposing those sharpened teeth. "And so we fight fire 
with fire; corruption with corruption. The universe is sick — and we 
seek to use that sickness against it." 


"Enough. Tell me who —" 


"— cut you open. Who's using you to harvest the worms — to help 
Weiss? Who's — ugh —" 


The ground beneath us is a spongy mishmash of colors churned 
together into a mush-like brown. The smell of sweetness is 
overpowering; it leaves me doubled over and choking. The earth 
gives underneath my weight. My left foot sinks down into the loamy 
soil with a horrible schirp. A thick, white froth seeps up from around 
my ankle. That sickening sweet odor intensifies. 


Iga looks down at me. 


"Someone who perverts our beliefs. Someone you will find. 
Someone you will stop." 


"| don't —" The earth beneath me is slowly sucking me in. My ankles 
are gone; my calves are sinking. More of that cream gushes out, 
rising up past my knees. | try to push myself up, but my palms sink 
down. "| don't — work for you." My eyes focus on the landscape 
behind her. Rolling hills, plateaus, mountains of mush. | think | see a 
rock formation poking up somewhere — no, not rocks. That's the top 
of a steeple — 


"You do not work for me, but we are on the same side. The side of 
the angels. The side of /kunaan." 


Down to my waist, now. | try to move my legs, but the mush just 
squishes out of the way — and | sink faster. "That's the side that 
eats babies, right? Just checking. | read your file. You're a goddamn 
monster." I'm about to drown in a sea of sugary mush and she's 
Baba Yaga. Pissing her off feels like the right move. 


She doesn't seem offended. Instead, she just smiles and reaches 
down to stroke my cheek with one of her gnarled, wrinkled fingers. 


"Oh, my dear, dear little Yashenka," she coos. "Of course I'ma 
monster. What else but a monster could ever hope to defy the stars 
themselves?" 


Down to my shoulders, now. Her cruel hand snaps up and seizes 
me by the hair, forcing my head back; | open my lips to say 
something — maybe just to yell — but she spits straight into my 
mouth. Something wet and awful hits the back of my throat. | feel it 
burning — everything is burning. | feel like I'm on fire. Her voice 
rumbles above me, crooning with a hateful, loving snarl. 


"Avenge me, Jacob Hartliss. Do it as a favor — from one monster to 
another." 


She whispers into my ear. 


The universe dissolves. 


The remains of a cramped little tenement room smolder around me. 
A wispy haze of smoke fills the space; the scent of burnt meat and 
burning wood is everywhere. The canisters have all shattered, 
spilling nauseous chemicals and glass shards across the floor. A 
fresh coat of charred Iga Volodya — with some scorched worm- 
meat thrown in — decorates the walls. 


Sirens wail in the distance. 


The wall behind me has all but disintegrated; | step over what's left 
of the door and into the hall. A family of four — ma, pa, two kids — 
stand at the other end of the hall, staring at me. 


| glance back at the ruin, then look to them. "What?" 


They rush back into their apartment, slamming the door behind 
them. 


| make my way down the stairs, out the door, and back into the 
bustling streets of Chicago. | take a good, long moment to savor the 
sights and smells of the Windy City — and then | go hunt down the 
nearest pay-phone. 


"So it's not Sarkites." September sounds annoyed. 


"| didn't say that." | rub at my neck. My voice is hoarse; | keep 
having to clear my throat. "Just saying it ain't Iga Volodya." 


"You're sure?" 


"About as sure as | am about anything. | got a name," | tell her, 
fishing in my pocket for another stick of gum. 


"You already had a name." 


"Well, now | got a better one." My fingers tremble a little as | struggle 
to unwrap the foil, jamming the stick into my mouth. "Wilhelm 
Reinharat." 


"Doctor Reinhardt?" 


"Yeah. You know him?" | stop to chew and give a smile to the flat- 
foots running by. They're chasing the fire-truck on its way to 
Volodya's former residence. 


"He's a highly respected alienist and physician." 

Waitasec — physician. Didn't Weiss bring his personal physician 
with him to visit the stoolie who pulled that one-day Lazarus act? 
"He ever work for Weiss?" 


"He's a private physician. It's possible, but..." She sounds 
unconvinced. 


"Pull whatever you got on him — send it to my office. Also, I'm 
gonna need..." | take in a deep breath and steady myself. "I'm 
gonna need a favor, September. Need you to arrange a meet-and- 
greet for me." 


"With who?" 
"Richard Chappell." 


The line goes quiet for a little. | let her have that one — hell, | 
wouldn't know what to say either. 


"Are you... uh, are you sure?" 
"| don't like it, but yeah. I'm sure." 
"Alright. Uh..." 


"Call my office tomorrow with the details. I'll be in." 


Next: Red Harvest 


but lasting feelings of paranoia, as well as sensations that they are 
being watched or followed. Whether this is in fact some remnant 
influence left behind or standard symptoms of distress followed by 
the traumatic intrusion of SCP-965 into their psyche is under 
investigation. 


SCP-965 has produced no noise to date, and there have been no 
reported instances of SCP-965 animating in any way once it 
appears; however it is capable of disappearing and reappearing at 
will in different poses. SCP-965 also shows signs of sentience; it has 
been observed to show disappointment if it manifests to an empty 
room, irritation or anger when manifesting before someone that had 
broken a prior SCP-965-1, and one instance of visible fear when in 
the presence of Agent who had earlier participated in its 
retrieval. 


Addendum: Incident 965-1: On / /19 , routine testing involving 
the destruction of SCP-965-1 confirmed that while a multi-paned 
window may act as multiple holding zones, sufficient damage to the 
overall structure disqualifies it as a possible replacement; 
unfortunately SCP-965 instead manifested in an adjacent 
experimentation chamber's observational window. Due to the high 
standards of Foundation equipment, this required the window's 
complete removal and destruction via tactical breaching charge. 
SCP-965 was viewed with significantly hostile expressions for one 
month after the incident. 


Addendum: Incident 965-2: On / /20 , Doctor L requested 
transfer away from the project involving SCP-965. She was reported 
as beginning to have visions of SCP-965 and to experience feelings 
of paranoia, similar to those affected during sleep, despite not 
having slept in the presence of SCP-965 herself. Dr. L was 
temporarily relieved of duties and assigned to psychological care. 
No other instances of SCP-965 affecting personnel who have not 
slept in its presence have been reported. 


« SCP-964 | SCP-965 | SCP-966 » 


The Longest Ride 


I'd gotten sick of the shuddering, the screeching and the scratching 
long ago, but | seemed to be unable to escape it. I'd born it, gritting 
my by now thoroughly yellow-brown teeth. Funny thing, riding an 
elevator. No such thing as elementary hygiene, but that mirrored 
back lets you enjoy your descent into hobo territory. 


A soft clanking sound and a jarring stop announced my arrival and | 
stepped back slightly as the door slid open. A wood-panelled wall in 
front of me, dust collecting on the thin molding running at waist 
height from left to right. That damn metal M dangled forlornly from 
the wall's pitted and scarred surface. It was cold and | zipped up my 
leather jacket just a bit further before carefully sticking my head out 
the doors. 


To the left were the remains of a very familiar hallway. It ended in a 
whole lot of nothing now, a jagged maw opening up into what looked 
like a Cold War version of hell. To the right was a dead end. | 
positioned the prosthetic leg I'd found three buttons down in 
between the doors to keep them open and took a few careful steps 
outside the elevator. Stepping over one of the M's companions in 
the middle of the floor, | made my way down the hall. The wind 
howled and an increasingly ominous creaking accompanied my 
footsteps the further | ventured from my starting point. After about 
three meters | gave up. No sense in all of this ending with me 
impersonating a puddle of goo down there. Not as long as | still had 
some hope of getting out of here. 


The city seemed to have been utterly destroyed. Twisted steel 
girders were the silent reminders that this place had lived at some 
point. As far as | could see they were bent out from my position. 
There was no sound but the howling of the wind, no life out here 
beside mine. Or at least, that was how it seemed. Perhaps 
somewhere down there, something...was. Considering my 
experiences up until then, | didn't care to find out what, if anything, 


was out there. 


I'd seen it before and I'd see it again; an emptiness taking infinite 
shapes. | stood there for a few more minutes, taking in the 
desolation and sorrow of the place. Then | hung my head and slowly 
made my way back to the open doors of the elevator. | plucked the 
leg back inside and watched as the doors closed in front of me. 


Sixty-nine floors down, twenty-seven to go before I'd run out of 
buttons to press. Perhaps the next time the doors opened I'd find 
this Mr. Salford-Watkins. Glancing back over my shoulder | looked at 
what brought me here in the first place, sitting in the corner of this 
small cell. Utterly unremarkable in its brown wrapping paper. | didn't 
think I'd deliver this one in time. 


"He's been in there how long?" the fresh-faced junior researcher 
asked in a puzzled tone. 


Taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, the man he was 
relieving replied.