consumption, to methods of violation, to the summoning of the 
King’s servants, and all pointed towards the singular purpose of 
reshaping the world of man in its own image. 


The biggest problem, Salah thought, was how one went about killing 
a god. You could burn its scriptures, wipe out its worshipers, kill its 
avatars, but that would only ever delay it. Eventually it would come 
back, whispering, and the whole cycle would begin again. It could 
wait forever. 


Salah tried to focus on finding Mary-Ann amidst the bustle. 


The chapterhouse was abuzz, crawling with agents and operatives. 
The majority were of the Initiative, men and women Salah had 
worked alongside for years. Scattered amongst them even now 
were a few Foundation and Coalition representatives, trying to avoid 
each other as much as possible. The Coalition agents were grizzled 
veterans, with wary eyes and hardened faces. The Foundation 
agents had a stiff plastic look to them, like they had been pushed 
from a mold. The Initiative agents almost seemed out of place: most 
of them looked like they had just walked in off the streets. A motley 
bunch if there ever was one. 


Shouting in the next room. A fight had broken out. He was surprised 
that it had taken this long. The crowd had formed the traditional 
circle, with combatants at the center. On one side was a Coalition 
agent in camouflage, with a scar over one eye. He was holding a 
portable white-board in one hand. On the other side was a woman 
with blonde hair down to her waist and robes covered in writing, just 
barely restrained by Rabbi Arnheim and Smitation-Of-Evil-And- 
Trampling-Of-Sinful-Things Toton. She looked to have been trying to 
brain the Coalition agent with a book. 


“Unwriter! Unwriter!” She screamed at the agent, who looked 
thoroughly confused. “Wordkiller! Let go of me...” 


Salah stepped through the circle. Time to do what he was good at: 
smooth talking. 


“Good morning, Di. Read anything good lately?” 


“One moment, Salah, just have to dispense some justice to this 
agent of the Censor.” Her tone of voice jumped right from howling 
for blood to bubbly cheerfulness. 


“Perhaps | could persuade you otherwise? He looks like a man who 
files his paperwork. This was a mistake, true, but | think we could 
consider him enlightened to his wrongdoing, don’t you? Can't hold 
the ignorant at fault.” 


Di relaxed somewhat, her restrainers letting go of her arms. She 
glared at the Coalition agent. 


“Don't do it again.” 


The agent, with an expression of pure “what the hell just happened”, 
nodded and walked off. The circle broke down. Di came bounding 
over to Salah, a big smile on her face. He was quite sure she was 
bipolar. 


“As a matter of fact | have read something good recently you see | 
was in this little used book store just off the interstate and...” 


Di kept talking, blissfully unaware of anyone else in the room. Salah 
nodded occasionally towards her, directing his actual attention to 
Arnheim and Toton. 


“Thank you, Salah. | doubt we could have held her back for much 
longer.” 


“Ah, it was nothing. It’s good to see you again, Aaron. How’s the 
family?” 


“Oh, they’re doing just fine. Just finished putting an addition on the 
house, so the kids have their own bedrooms now. There was a lot of 
celebration with that, let me tell you.” 

“And you, Soeantost?” 


“Quaking in fear and awe of the Lord, as usual.” 


There was a tint of self-aware humor to the statement. Toton was 
good with that. You had to be, when you were the woman who had a 


habit of belting out “He Shall Crush the Sinful ‘Neath His Blessed 
Feet of Burning Light” at the top of her lungs. 


“Have either of you seen Mary-Ann around?” 
“Nope,” Toton said. ‘Haven't seen her at all, actually.” 


“| saw her maybe half an hour ago, up on the third floor. Looked like 
she was about to fall asleep right then and there.” 


“Ah. She probably has. | should find some place to rest as well.” 


“.,.and what’s really interesting about that character is his 
relationship with his father, which parallels...” 


“Mm. We're in dark times again, Salah.” 
“They come and go, and we know more than we did then.” 
“So do they.” 


“True. God willing, we'll be able to prevent things before they 
escalate.” 


“So hope we all,” Toton said. 


“..and that’s the end of the book, and while there are a few shakes 
in the writing it’s a wonderful way to spend an afternoon and | 
recommend it highly.” 


Salah nodded. 
“Sounds good, Di. I'll have to check it out.” 


A short time later, Salah found Mary-Ann asleep on a couch in the 
third floor lounge. He left her there. 


Time passed. Plans were made, some amount of restless sleep was 
had, gear was doled out, prayers were said. A muted cloud fell over 
the chapterhouse as deployment time approached, the bustle and 
worry of the morning turning into a calm dread. 


They waited. 


Then, it was time. 


The group descended on the compound under darkness, 
unsuspected. The Coalition ritual hackers broke through the outer 
wards, allowing the armored personnel carriers to drive up right to 
the doors. The wind screamed, the earth burst open with a 
misshapen brood, and battle was met. 


Mary-Ann ducked into an alcove, just avoiding a stream of black 
acid shot down the hall. As soon as the splatter stopped she leaned 
around and fired off two shots: one miss, one in the shoulder. A 
Foundation agent in the alcove on the other side of the hall downed 
the creature. 


They kept moving, ignoring the spindly corpse with the marbled skin. 
The compound was crawling with them, more so than the actual 
Children. Those were easily dealt with: they had no guns, no 
survivors were taken. Mary-Ann had not seen any captives yet. If 
there had been, it would have been an act of mercy. 


The place was very wrong. Apparitions would flit in and out of vision, 
screams and cries of pain would sound from the distance, but there 
was never anything there. 


Mary-Ann was working automatically. Questions like how the 
Children managed to make a complex this large and ornate without 
anyone noticing were brushed to the back of her mind. The 
existence of these little creatures scrabbling all over the place made 
it feel like a scene out of Aliens, except the horror was undercut by 
the fact that she had night-vision goggles. Given the artisans the 
Initiative procured most of its high-end equipment from, those 
goggles were covered in iconography and had a heads-up display in 
Latin. 


According to the radio, the other teams had had much the same. 


The whole event was a blessing in disguise: the Children had no 
time to prepare for a force of this size. Compared to what they were 
before, compared to what the stories had been, it was almost a 
letdown. 


Things blurred together. The statues of various acts of violence and 
debauchery, the paintings, the creatures, the few men and women in 
red robes, usually found cowering in corners, everything blurred. 
The gunfire, the shouts, the commands, everything blurred. 


Eventually, after many shots, the group of five came to a pair of 
doors, big ones. Big doors mean important things on the other side, 
it was a rule of life. The agents positioned themselves, and two 
opened the doors. They creaked as they swung outward. 


A massive circular room with a domed roof stretched out before the 
group. The dome was covered in a painting, like some sort of 
twisted Sistine chapel, covered in horrifying beasts and great orgies 
of people surrounded by further scenes of graphic depravity. 
Columns lined the perimeter of the room, etched with symbols of 
some language that was better off unknown. Hundreds of candles 
were arranged just so, the wax dripped on the floor just so, tiles in 
the floor arranged just so, writing out rows and layers of symbols on 
the floor. Deep red tapestries and banners hung about the place. 


In the center of the room was a blue whale, lying on its back, 
smeared with whorls and swirls of blood. A lone man was standing 
in front of it. He was middle aged: short black hair and a biggish 
nose. For a flashing moment, Mary-Ann wondering what had driven 
him to do this, who he was, what his history was. Would he be 
mourned by parents who had lost a son, a wife who lost a husband, 
children who lost a father? 


The man got out a half-shout before a bullet passed through his 
skull and his body dropped to the floor. The echoes died away, and 
everything was silent in the room. 


Mary-Ann had no idea how the Children had gotten a blue whale this 
far inland. She decided it was better not to pursue an answer. 


All that was left was to kill it. 


Although SCP-633 is not currently believed to be malevolent it has 
demonstrated an effortless capability to seize control of an entire 
Foundation Site's computer network, without regard for security 
clearance or other restrictions. 


SCP-633 does not appear to be fully aware of the significance of this 
connection. Decommissioning or other destructive proposals have 
been denied due to the existing containment procedures being 
sufficient. 


Addendum: Original documentation recovered from the Unusual 
Incidents Unit. 


Electronic copy below as per Federal Records Act 
UIU File 1976-041: Ghost Cloner 
Summary: 


A computer virus which is intelligent, capable of self-replication and 
creation of protoplasmic fluids. 


Suspect Description/Capabilities 
Name: Ghost 


Irregularity Cross-reference: electronic, microcomputer, terminal, 
possessive 


Physical Description: Virus present on an Apple Il computer. 
Highly contagious. 


Sex Heigh Weigh Race Hair Eyes Identifying 

Buiid Attributes 

N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A Green(?) Electronic 
Capabilities: It has the ability to project itself into machines and 


appears to have some literal viral properties. Also able to 
communicate in English, with moderate intelligence. 


Purpose/Motive: Self-propagation and spreading itself across 
computer devices. 


« Shepherds | Hub | People Look East » 


People Look East 


Nota Bene: It would behoove you to read Shepherds and 
Second Watch before reading this tale. 


Mary-Ann Lewitt sat at the little table in the kitchen, reading her 
book. It was snowing outside, with big white flakes spiraling out of 
the blackness beyond and dashing themselves against the 
windowpane. Chatter flowed out from the living room, the occasional 
laugh interspersed with the conversation and the sound of the TV. 


The kitchen itself was cozy, still warmed by the frenzied cooking of 
that afternoon. The smells of dinner still lingered in the air. Now that 
had been a meal, the kind where you didn’t plan on moving more 
than a few feet for the next day or so. When Big John 
Courtemanche, Rabbi Arnheim, and Rigatoni Carbonara IV shared a 
kitchen, there was no alternative. 


Technically, it wasn’t a Christmas party. It was the “Completely 
Secular and Non-Denominational Winter Celebration of Fellowship 
and Goodwill towards Mankind (Please Check Your Attitude and 
Weapons at the Door)” party. Someone’s tongue had been planted 
firmly enough in their cheek that Mary-Ann guessed that some sort 
of surgery would be needed to remove it. 


The bizarre thing was that it worked. There was not a single 
decoration of religious significance on display in the entire house. 
That would have pained Big John. The man was practically Santa 
Claus already: gigantic white beard, ruddy complexion, wide around 
the middle, and a habit of punching heretics. 


“You're being anti-social, Mary-Ann.” 


She looked up to see Salah at the kitchen entry. He was holding a 
mug of hot chocolate, and wearing a horrifically tacky sweater: bright 
red with a goofy-looking snowman on the front. 


“And | didn’t think you’d actually wear that.” 


“lam a Pakistani-born British Muslim who is working alongside a 
motley array of Christians, Jews, and sundry other faiths to fight the 
horrific things that lurk in the dark corners of creation.” He took a sip 
from his mug, clearly using it as an excuse for dramatic timing. “I 
should think that by now | would have a fine-tuned sense of irony.” 


“Or you just refuse to refuse a gift.” 


“That too.” He sat down in the opposite chair, left ankle resting on 
right knee. Another sip. “There’s something on your mind. Talk to 
me.” 


Mary-Ann sighed, putting on a smile for it. She placed the napkin 
she had been using as a bookmark back in its place. 


“Yeah. Okay.” She set the book down on the table. “You got me. | 
guess it’s just that time of year is all.” 


“Bad memories?” 


“Spending time with family doesn’t mean much when they never 
want to see your face again. Except maybe in a police report.” 


“Ah. | Know the feeling. If my father could see me now, he’d probably 
burst an artery out of sheer rage. But alas, he is dead.” 


“| mean, it’s not as bad as it was last year. Last year my Christmas 
was a TV dinner | shared with my cat. I’m okay out here, Salah. 
Really, I’m okay.” 


Salah nodded, taking another sip of cocoa. There was quiet for a bit. 
Maybe he was done, maybe he was just pausing. She didn’t feel like 
opening her book back up, because it felt like he was about to say 
something. 


“Remember that spirit we exorcised from that restroom?” he said. 


“| don’t think I’m going to forget the ghost that lived in a toilet and 
spent five hours telling me | had a nice butt. And also that it wanted 
to eat it.” 


“And that was when you threatened it with a plunger.” 


“That was when | exorcised it with a plunger.” Mary-Ann smiled for a 
moment. “Though that was just an awful day in general. Way too hot 
outside, no air conditioning in that building, job took like five hours. | 
mean, it’s funny now, but | know we were both ready to kill each 
other and quite a few civilians over it.” 


“Mmm-hmm.” 
“And, you know, | think it might have had some eyesight problems. 


Really, on a scale of “plywood” to “dayum”, my butt is maybe an “eh, 


09 


okay”. 
“lll take your word for it.” 


There were shouts from the living room. Someone had scored a 
touchdown, apparently. 


“You’re doing that thing, aren’t you?” Mary-Ann said. 
“What thing?” 


“That thing where you start innocent conversations to make people 
comfortable. You’re trying to lure me into a sense of security so I'll 
start talking about my feelings.” 


Salah shrugged. 

“You said it, not me.” 

“Well, it’s working. It’s definitely working...” her voice trailed off. 
“I’m listening.” 


“It's...1 don’t know, I’m more comfortable out here. You know me, 
Salah; | don’t really have other friends. | mean, | know them, | talk to 
them, but I’m not really friends with them. Not really.” 


“You know Di and Aaron, and | know you've spoken with Anas and 
Rasha before. Just come in and talk with them for a while.” 


“I’m all right.” 

“Mary-Ann...” 

“It’s...I’m just...l’m scared, Salah.” 
“What are you afraid of?” 


Mary-Ann twirled a lock of hair around her finger, her eyes focused 
on the base of the refrigerator, across the kitchen. 


“A lot of things.” 
“Like what?” 


There was a pause. In the living room, Di was energetically arguing 
literature with someone else. 


“Well...you know.” 
Salah nodded. 


“Hm. Have you seen the progress they've made on the Universal 
Texts? Almost fifty pages done, | hear," he said. 


“Yeah. Pretty good for sticking a post-it note with ‘Abraham was a 
pretty rad dude’ on the wall.” 


“So then, gentlemen, what progress have we made this week? Well 
sir, we have determined that Moses was also a pretty cool dude.” 


A limp chuckle rose from that. 

“You're doing it again.” 

Salah shrugged again. 

“If it would make you feel better, I’m willing to speak first.” 
“Yeah. Yeah, that'd be better.” 


“Very well then. My greatest fear is myself.” 


Mary-Ann’s face was quizzical.