"It's an old Chevy. Dad had one of these." He approached it, 
cautiously. "| realize Grimm Countenance applies, but if this is here, 
maybe we can drive it out." 


"Good thinking," Mattings admitted, walking alongside him. As he 
approached, the smell of animals gave way to a putrid scent of 
rotting meat, like someone had left a steak in the sun for weeks. "Oh 
god, what the hell?" 


Pickman stopped, and bent over, retching. "Fucking hell. Smells like 
a roadkill enthusiast convention." 


"No, Sloth's Pit had one of those once," Claude commented, pulling 
up his shirt over his nose so he could breathe. "This is worse." 


The archivist approached the truck, frowning. "...I've seen this 
before." He looked up. "This is the exact truck that was stolen. From 
the fairgrounds, | mean, in '69. They never found it. Guess it ended 
up here somehow." He looked in the truck bed and turned away, 
gagging. "Holy shit." 


"What?" 


"Explains the smell, at least," He gagged, stepping away. "Human 
remains in the back. Covered by some plant matter— looked like 
pumpkin vines?" 


"Well, we sure as hell aren't driving that," Mattings frowned. He 
reached into his pocket, and took out a flashlight, shining it towards 
one of the barns. Within, he saw the head of a horse, sticking out of 
one of the stables. His light began to flicker, before fading out. 
"There's a live animal in there." 


"Really? Where?" 


"A horse, it—" Mattings performed some percussive maintenance on 
his flashlight. When it blinked back on, a horse's head was on the 
ground from the neck up. A form cloaked in black crouched over it, 
and looked up at Mattings, showing its teeth the color of rotten 
leaves, and eyes that shone with the last light of summer. "Oh shit 
run!" 


"Wha—" He spotted the thing sitting over the horse, and shouted, 
"Oh SHIT! The pair of them ran into the night, towards the quickly- 
fading lights of the rides. In their haste, they failed to notice the bed 
of the truck was suddenly unoccupied. 


Some time later, the pair of them had come to rest in the moonlit 
shadow of a dilapidated Ferris wheel. Any sounds of fair rides had 
come to a grinding halt, and they were left in the ruins of merry-go- 
rounds and other fair rides. 


Mattings spoke up first, panting. "So. What triggered this?" Claude 
asked as Pickman, looking behind him. This was the edge of the 
fairground, flanked by a tall, cement wall. 


Pickman took out the photograph, and looked it over. "Time paradox 
in a photograph? Or some kind of Foundation countermeasure so 
that we never find out that they were lying to us?" He brandished the 
photograph. "The Foundation wasn't in Sloth's Pit, it didn't even 
know about Sloth's Pit, until 1976. What the hell is a van that says S 
& C Plastics doing at an anomalous-looking fire in 1969?!" 


Claude wavered. "Is this even real?" 


"Has to be, on some scale," Pickman reasoned. "The Foundation did 
a ton of tests with Polaroids and cognitohazards back in the 
Omega-7 days, so they could control 105. None of them worked. 
Even on photos that had nothing to do with it—" 


"Her," Claude mumbled. 


"—implanted cognitohazards wouldn't take." He pulled at his 


thinning hair. "We're by the rides." 
"That we are," Claude swallowed. 


"Have you never been to a fair before, Mattings? They always put 
the rides at the front of county fairs. Easiest way to get kids inside." 
He took out his phone. "If there's a way out, our phones will pick up 
a signal." 


Mattings took out his own phone, the signal showing zero bars. He 
followed Pickman, who followed the wall. "Despite everything,” he 
said, "I love her." 


"Hmm?" Pickman asked. 


"Cassandra. We've had our disagreements, our fights. But..." 
Mattings sniffed. "I'll be damned if her smile isn't what gets me up in 
the morning. She's got snaggleteeth, you know? Her canines look 
like vampire fangs. It's so cute, though." He went forward, holding 
out his phone. "If | survive this, I'm not having a courthouse 
wedding." 


"That's the spirit," Pickman smiled. "These last few days have been 
hell, but—" 


Claude's phone suddenly chimed to life. The message "Fifteen 
Missed Calls" showed up on the screen; he had signal. He looked 
up, and saw the unmistakable shade of fluorescent light of a 
Foundation site from beyond the ticket booth of the fairgrounds. 
"There!" he gesticulated. "There! Through there!" 


"I see it," Pickman grinned, running forward. 


There was an aperture by the exit of the fairgrounds, and sure 
enough, it seemed to lead back onto the archival sublevel. Pickman 


almost reached it, but Mattings put his arm in front of him. "What is 
it?" 


Mattings frowned. "Something doesn't feel right." He looked down at 
his feet, at the rustling leaves by his ankles. "Step carefully, 
Pickman." 


The archivist swallowed, walking towards the exit. Claude stepped in 
front of him, and he felt something catch his leg and squeeze, 
starting to grow up his calf. He tried calling for help, but he felt 
something take root down his throat. 


The archivist felt cold as something constricted his arm hard enough 
that he felt the bones shatter. He let out a gasp of pain, but all that 
came out was air. His other hand still clutched the folder with the 
information he had gathered. And the photograph... 


He threw his folder through the portal. His hand froze before his 
fingers could make a fist to crumple the photograph and throw it 
after him. "Matt...ings..." he called. 


There was a great, awful sound, followed by a great, awful silence. 
Dr. Mattings turned back to face the fairgrounds, only to find an 
empty hallway behind him, devoid of any opening, any archivist, any 
entity. 


Dr. Mattings looked at the ground where the aperture had been, and 
saw a blood-stained folder with a single, dead leaf on it. The leaf 
crunched and fell apart as if it had been stepped on, and footprints 
sounded down the corridor. 


Claude Mattings ran to the nearest security alarm, away from the 
phantom footsteps. 


«Chapter 2| Black Autumn Hub | Chapter 4» 


Bloody Pulps and Vines 


October 22nd 


Dr. Katherine Sinclair blinked awake through a haze of medication to 
see a nurse disconnecting her IV drips. She muttered and sat up, 
rubbing her head. "Mmph. Am | free to go?” 


"Just about. We just need to go through checkout procedures." 
"Town still evacuated?" She asked. 


The nurse — Katherine thought her name was Liao — nodded. 
"Sloth's Pit is staying vacant until November 2nd, at least. Yesterday 
was a bit of a mess; archivist went missing in the sublevels." 


"Pickman?" Katherine bolted upright. "Shit, what happened?" 


"Don't know. Dr. Mattings said he had information for you, but... 
there was blood found on his folder, and the archives are a mess—" 


"Son of a bitch," Katherine rubbed her face. "Son of a fucking bitch. 
Did Mattings see what got him?" 


"We're not sure. He's pretty shaken, just keeps talking about a 
photograph." Liao looked up. "He checked himself into the psych 
ward." 


"And Montgomery?" Katherine frowned. "How is he?" 
"He is right next to you," a deep voice came from Katherine's left. 


She turned, and saw Montgomery Reynold's somewhat portly form 
laying on the bed with his arm in a sling. She shook her head. "You 
honestly thought it was a good idea to shoot hot plasma at a 
thoughtform?" 


"|... panicked," He admitted, clearing his throat. "You need to get 


back to work. The rise in anomalous activity is dangerous, and 
this... Black Autumn that the Goatman described..." 


"Well, | can't see what Pickman got, not yet." She tilted herself 
upward, and sat to turn herself out of bed. "I'm going to head down 
to forensics. See if | can persuade Guillard to surrender some of the 
data." 


"When we meet again, I'll be bearing mead and paperwork," 
Montgomery chuckled. 


"You aren't having mead until you're off your antibiotics, Mr. 
Reynolds," Liao chided. 


Katherine shook her head, and made her way to the front desk of 
the trauma center to collect her effects. 


"Dr. Sinclair!" 


The red-headed thaumaturgist looked up from the coffee machine at 
the woman walking past her. Green eyes, blonde hair, and a face 
that looked like it had done far too much frowning, no mistaking it, 
this was Cassandra Pike. "You're out of the hospital!" the 
parazoologist beamed. 


"Thankfully, my injuries were mostly superficial." She punched in the 
code for a hot chocolate. "How are you doing?" 


"Just got back from seeing Claude," she said, holding out a scrap of 
paper. "He wanted me to give you this. It's something he managed 
to save from Pickman's folder." 


Sinclair took the paper and looked it over, her other hand retrieving 
her cocoa. "Have they... found him yet?" 


"No," she admitted. "He wasn't a bad person. | hope he's all right." 
Sinclair read the paper closely. 


ORANGE BEHEMOTH 
1969 Douglas County Fair sets State Record for 


Largest Pumpkin 


Weighing in at a ton and a half, the pumpkin, dubbed 
"Gourdon" by its owner Jeffery Hubble, was hauled into 
the fairgrounds on October 29th, vine and all. Gourdon 
literally broke the scale it was put on, and a new one had 
to be ordered from nearby Duluth for the purposes of 
measurement. Mr. Hubble (pictured above with his son 
Jeffery Jr. and daughter Eliza) says: "This is a 
magnificent day for my family. We've worked for years to 
grow Gourdon, and our hard work's finally paid off." 


"Jeff Hubble?" Sinclair looked up at Cassandra. "Isn't he still alive? 
Runs the produce farm near Lover's Lane with his family?" 


"Yeah, Claude and | bought pumpkins from him to make some Jack- 
O-Lanterns! He's a sweetie, and his daughter-in-law makes great 
pies." She chewed her lip. "They'll be out of town with the rest of the 
population, though. I'll see about making a call?" 


"No need," Sinclair shook her head and started down the hall. "I'm 
grabbing Hastings, Partridge, and some of Squad Seven. I'll stop by 
Weiss's office and get her approval—" 


"Director Weiss stepped down yesterday evening, Dr. Sinclair." 
She stopped in her tracks and snapped around. "What?" 


"She collapsed after hearing about Pickman, and was taken to the 
hospital in Duluth. As of right now, Dr. Hennessy is acting director. 
Claire Hennessy, from Multi-U?" 


"Shit." Sinclair ran her fingers through her hair. "What's she saying?" 


Dr. Pike walked a little further down the hall, to a touch-screen 
display. On it was various bulletins from around the site; on a typical 
day, it would have details about containment breaches, maintenance 
checks, and events such as seminars and disease screenings, as 
well as employee bulletins such as game nights and instrument 
practice. Now, it displayed a single, large bulletin, which Katherine 
read aloud. 


“As of the morning of October 22nd, Code Vandal has been 
declared. All Site-87 personnel have free reign on studies and 
projects dedicated to the protection of Nx-0018 and its inhabitants, 
and the prevention of any further dangerous anomalous 
manifestations.’ Shit." 


"Ever see a Code Vandal before?" Dr. Pike swallowed. "I've heard 
about them a few times, but that's in places like Harkness or 
Eventide. Nowhere like Sloth's Pit." 


"Once. 2008, around Christmas. Even then, it didn't spread this far 
outside the site." She strode towards the elevators. "Well, Code 
Vandal means open season. Time to assemble the cavalry." 


Twenty minutes later, the Cavalry— Composed of Dr. Sinclair, Dr. 
Keith Partridge, Researcher Christopher Hastings, and agents Carl 
Ashe and Alexander Carracos stood outside the Hubble estate. It 
was a twelve-acre produce farm, normally tended to by the Hubbles 
and some hired farmhands. Sitting in the driveway was a maroon 
Ford pickup. In the fall, the zuchinni and pumpkins could grow to the 
size of small children, and they did it without any chemicals. 


The size was, admittedly, helped by the fact that the soil here still 
had some of whatever bizarre magic John Chapman had left behind 
when he passed through here; most produce on the north end of 
town was comically large, from apples the size of one's foot to 
acorns that were dense enough to cause concussions when they 
fell. 


The sky above was colored in the same omnidirectional twilight it 
had been when Sinclair and Montgomery had fought the Goatman. 
"Has the lighting been a persistent phenomenon?" She asked. 


"It starts at noon and ends at dusk," Chris confirmed. "Only visible 
within the town's borders, of course." 


"So, we're just here to look through Hubble's stuff? Is that legal?" 
Carracos asked, taking a bite from a jerky ration. He adjusted the 
sleeve of his uniform, hiding the cross tattoo beneath it. "Like, | get 
that the town's abandoned, but..." 


Everyone looked at Carracos, eyes wide and faces bewildered. "You 
do realize that we wrote a good quarter of the bylaws in this town?" 
Partridge asked. 


"Stupid question," Carracos realized. "My bad." 


"We don't have time for this," Partridge griped, starting down the 
road to the property. "Mattings gave his girlfriend—" 


"Fiance," Sinclair corrected. 


"—a newspaper clipping about a giant pumpkin, and the sample that 
Mattings threw at us on his way to the psych ward was a clipping 
from a pumpkin vine. Hastings, you need to sample the produce." 


"Right." Chris produced on a pair of gloves and a respirator from his 
bag, as well as a set of secateurs, before heading towards the 
distant pumpkin patch. 


"He ain't goin’ alone," Ashe frowned, drawing his weapon and 
hustling after him. "Hey, Plant-talker! Wait up!" 


Sinclair looked at Partridge oddly. "Plant-talker?" 


"He likes to talk to specimens in the greenhouse," Partridge 
explained. "He actually ran a study to see if plants respond better 
when talked to. It's... inconclusive." 


"| imagine— wait." She looked at the Ford in the driveway. "Is that 
Hubble's truck?" 


"He shoulda evacuated with everyone else," Carracos quirked his 
brow, and spoke into his radio. "This is 7-6 calling S10 command, do 
you copy?" 

«Sigma 10 Command reading you, 7-6.» 


"Did we confirm the departure of the Hubble family? Up at Hubble 
Farms by Lover's Lane??" 


«Gimme a moment.» 


« SCP-811 | SCP-812 | SCP-813 » 


The two researchers walked towards the house. Sinclair rubbed his 
chin. "... maybe he took another car?" 


Partridge peered into the truck from the passenger's-side window 
and shook his head. "Keys are in the ignition. And there's some 
clothes folded on the seat. Someone was going to leave in this car." 


«7-6, this is Sigma 10 Command. We have confirmation that Jeffery 
Hubble Jr, his wife, and his children are in the Duluth safe zone.» 


Carracos grabbed his radio. "...and Hubble Senior?" 


«Not confirmed. Junior says he went back for the dog, and hasn't 
been heard from since.» 


"Shit," Carracos ran up to meet them. "We may still have civilians on 
the property." 


"Hold on," Sinclair knelt on the ground and drew a Celtic knot into 
the dirt of the driveway, reaching into her bag and removing a tube 
filled with ash, sprinkling it on the sign and speaking soft words. Arcs 
of light flew out from the sign, three flying towards her, two flying at 
the field where they could see Ashe and Hastings. "That's five," she 
stood. "No living things here, a least, other than us." 


"Right, forgot we had a witch with us," Carracos snorted. He waved 
a hand through the arc of light going towards him. "This is kinda 
neat, though. Is it like that D&D spell?" 


"It's not inherently Vancian, but this spell is meant to detect 
biological signatures. Sadly, it won't detect anything less complex 
than a fish." She looked at the bright red farmhouse that was the 
Hubble estate. "Guess we're going in. "Carracos, call Ashe and tell 
them we're infiltrating?"