Last thing | remember is that | was walking on the street, 
and suddenly some bikers pointed me with a gun, 
handcuffed me, put a bag in my head and forced me to 
to go with them. Once we stopped, they threw me into a 
room and started to beat the shit out of me. They didn't 
even ask me any questions, but rather kept screaming 
insults and saying | was gonna die (like if it wasn't clear 
to me already). | think it happened around half to an hour 
beating me till they grew tired of it, and when they took 
the bag out of my head, | barely saw several shades of 
guns through the blood in my eyes. | was scared, and in 
despair. | didn't see all my life through my eyes, but | 
couldn't stop thinking of all | wanted to do, but | won't. My 
dreams, goals, hopes, wishes, all the time | spent 
struggling to go ahead and have success. Everything | 
could have done, completely destroyed by some guys 
who didn't know respect for life. At the end, they didn't 
care at all. | felt the first shot in my stomach, and a new 
source of pain passed through my bleeding body. They 
didn't even waited for me to completely process it, and 
kept shooting. The second one hit my belly, the third one 
hit my chest, fourth fith and sixth my lungs, seventh my 
throat, eighth my arm, ninth, tenth, eleventh twelveth 
fourteenth seventeenth twentieth thirty ninth... 


| couldn't believe I'd stay aware to feel every bullet. 
specially the one that hit my brain. 


Well, even when | thought | was aware, | couldn't move 
by myself, but the pain stayed there, and it was getting 
even worse. Despite that, | felt when those guys took me 
out, but | was busy dealing with all that pain was a new 
and terrble experience. | thought that if | was already 


show standard signs of the beige colored SCP-610 infection but 
instead are wrapped in a red variant of it which shows signs of 
constant motion, rippling across itself in waves. 


From outside the church a flood of SCP-610 infected shamble 
quickly into the area, ignoring the man who lit the candles and 
stands in the middle of the room. They proceed to the captives on 
the wooden circles and begin to pull at the red SCP-610 masses 
resulting in further screams and cries. From what can be gathered 
from the returned video feed, the red SCP-610 seems to be 
connected to the captives and is using them as a source of 
sustenance that it then uses to grow and feed the normal SCP-610 
infected. Overly zealous infected tear at the red mass too hard 
which results in pulling skin and tissue from the human captive 
beneath. This exposed area is quickly covered over by the red mass 
which then grows in size. Feeding like this continues for 
approximately six minutes, at which time the candle bearing figure 
sounds a gong and all infected entities move to the pews. There are 
several more creatures than seats but none move past the front 
most pews. 


The figure who sounded the gong does not move, spontaneously 
collapsing as if made from hollow clay. From the pulpit area, activity 
is noticed as a pillar of SCP-610 flesh rises through the hole and 
extends, directing itself toward the gathered creatures. No sound is 
heard, and no motion is recorded once the pillar stops moving. This 
silent period persists for ten minutes without even the human 
captives making a sound, having fallen silent at an unknown point. 
The pillar of SCP-610 retracts back into the hole it emerged from 
without any warning, prompting the departure of the infected from 
the building. The candles remain lit and the team emerges after all 
infected appear to leave the area. The descended captives remain 
at ground level as well, all screaming seeming to have ceased but 
still showing signs of life with heavy breathing and movement. 


Upon departure from the church camera feeds from all three 
members became erratic. Camera 1 ceases transmitting completely, 
Camera 2 shoots straight up into the air for several meters, and 
Camera 3 captures the member with Camera 2 being flung by a 
tendril that emerges out of the ground itself, swinging them out of 


dead, at least I'd deserve to go to Hell first or something. 
But instead of that, | was taken into a wasteland, and got 
my deadself abandoned to the animals. The pain | feel 
never fades away, . | think there's no worst afterlife than 
this... 


My nose itches... Well, | can always be wrong. 


"The Secret of the Snow" by Roget 


Heads bowed, the family said grace. Their Christmas 
feast was nothing special, but it was enough. Father 
smiled at Wife. This was the good life. 


Outside their cottage, the eternal storm was brewing. 
Some days, it might look closer to finally breaking down 
than it did on others, but never going all the way. Frozen 
in time and perched above the edge of a glacier, but 
never falling over the edge. 


Well, everything had gone to hell in a handbasket pretty 
quickly. 


As with all things, it had started small. Harry, the co-pilot, 
had wanted to drop a small amount of altitude to check 
on weather. Mark had no idea what the something was. 


The blame game didn't really matter now. The pilot lay in 
several pieces across the debris field, and the co-pilot 
was out cold, bleeding from several alarming wounds. 
Mark wasn't doing so well for himself, either. 


He'd been thrown out of the plane and landed in a 
snowbank. He was still bruised to hell, but at least he 
wasn't in pieces. Physically, at least. 


Mark could hear the baying of dogs in the distance. 
Maybe the self-evaluation of his mental faculties could 
wait for another day. Sitting up, he gathered his things, 


papers, clothing, and tore into the woods. Pressing 
onward into the forest, his eyes felt like they were 
growing a layer of frost, with sharp crystals blinding 
every step. 


The clothes which had seemed so comfortable on the 
plane now laughed at his feeble attempts to ward of the 
cold. He kept on stumbling through the darkness, 
grasping at frozen, dead tree branches and stones 
buried in snow. A blind flight into the unknown. 


He tried thinking of home. Any home. Maybe it'd be nice 
to back with Mom and Dad, in Boca. It was always warm 
there. Didn't need to worry about being up to your knees 
in snow, alone, thousands of miles from home. Maybe he 
could go back with Nicole, and Brandon. But that wasn't 
warm. Apartment. Think of the present. Think of the 
creature comforts waiting back in the States... 


Creature comforts? He'd be a creature's dinner soon, if 
he didn't find someplace to stay. 


Mark wiped the snow out of his eyes and kept going. He 
couldn't see anything, or... there was something. 
Windows, with light spilling out onto the snow. 


There was a cottage. A small cottage, with timber walls 
and smoke curling from a chimney. Knocking on the door 
was not a hard decision to make. 


Mark knocked. 


A man opened the door, allowing a crack of light to spill 
over Mark’s face. 


“Terribly sorry, but we’re not interested. We're in the 
middle of...” 


“No, no. No. It’s nothing like that. Can | please... uh, sir, 
may | call you that? Sorry. | just... need a place to get 


out of this cold, and | found your house, and...” 


The hand opening the door was connected to a strong, 
older man. His hair was pulling into a widow's peak, and 
a caterpillar mustache perched above his lips. A big red 
nose and squinty eyes completed the center of his face, 
peering down at Mark from above. 


"Sorry, we're not, uh, interested." 


"NO! No, wait, please. I'm not selling- it's cold out here. 
Please, may | come in?" 


The man stared at Mark, considering him. The light from 
behind his massive frame was swiftly being joined by 
delectable smells, turkey and grease and gravy, swirling 
around Mark, swooning him and pulling him in. 


"Alright, you poor soul. It's Christmas, isn't it?" 


Walking inside, Mark kept his eyes on his new 
surroundings. This was a small, three room cottage. One 
room to eat, one to sleep, one to sit. 


The family was sitting down, at the table, with the food, 
on their plates. They were all looking up at him, they 
didn't quite seem to know what to think. The woman, 
maybe the wife, was looking at him nervously. 


The Father spoke up, in a booming, deep tone. "Family! 
This is...." 


"Mark." 


"Mark! He's here to eat with us. Poor old boy was 
wandering out in the cold." 


“Thanks so, so much... | might’ve ended up like a 
snowman out there, if | hadn’t found you all...” 


“Well, Mark... | have to say, we’re all very sorry about 
thinking you were just another salesman. Isn't that right, 


love?” 
The Wife nodded, wordlessly. 


“We moved here to get out from the salesmen, but they 
still come knocking every now and again... but, we do 
well for ourselves. Don’t we?” 


Mark nodded, his newfound warmth making him feel 
exceptionally limber. “Yeah, yeah, sure ma-sir. Again, 
thank you so, SO much...” 


Father slapped him on the back, heartily. “Well, we’ve 
got a chair here, Mark. Have a seat” He pulled a small 
folding chair from beneath the table. “You’ve found a 
family to rest with, on Christmas eve.” 


Mark sat down, blinking the last of the frost out of his 
eyelashes. “I didn’t realize some places celebrated the 
holidays so late...” 


Father ignored him. “So, do you have a family?” 


At this, the children — which had until now, been little 

more than smiling decorative pieces — perked up. “Do 
you have a wife, Mark?” piped the girl. Mark looked at 

the assembled family. “Oh, uh... well, me and my wife, 
we're... separated.” 


They stared for a moment. 
“Is she okay?” asked the little boy. 


“Uh, no,sorry, nothing like that. She’s fine. We just.... 
agreed, uh, that we needed some time apart.” 


They stared at Mark. 
Shin 


The Father’s smile dropped a few notches. “Well, I’m 
sure you're not in the usual for separating, right?” 


“I’m sorry?” 
“The normal. Status quo. Is separation the status quo?” 


Mark paused. “Uh... no, | wouldn’t say it is, but... yeah, 
no, | think the status quo would be to stay together?” 


The Family nodded in assent, silently consuming their 
food as they eyed Mark. The warmth in the room, which 
had seemed so inviting only minutes ago, was now 
stifling, and Mark fidgeted in his seat. 


“You seem nervous, son. Are you okay? Was it too 
personal?” 


“I’m sorry, the chill has gotten to me. Do you, uh, mind if | 
take a minute in your... parlor?” 


Sitting in the overstuffed chair, Mark kept his hands close 
to the crackling flames. The smoky wood drifted over 
him, taking him up and away from his troubles. Closing 
his eyes, and felt himself relaxing. 


Idly, his hand found itself dragging along the cover of a 
leather-bound scrapbook. 


It was titled “THE FAMILIES WE’VE BEEN”. 


Leaning into the chair, and placing the book in his lap, 
Mark opened it. The fluttering of paper and peered in. 


Photographs. Dozens of them, some old, some new, a 
few loose and blossoming with the molds and warping of 
age. And all of them, all of them, had the family now 
hosting him. 


Some of them looked to be in old English garb, with 
Father sporting a mustache, and the wife looking as 
barefoot and pregnant as could be. Some had no 
children, and some even had no wife. Constant in every 
one was Father, peering over the frame and into the 


viewer. 


One photo had the family in the woods, smiling and 
posing as he delivered the killing blow to an Oak tree. 


Another depicted them on a boardwalk clouded by early 
morning fog, smiling at the photographer. 


One even had them all at work in a factory. Father 
looked on from a parapet, lovingly staring at his family as 
they operated the heavy machinery. The Daughter was 
only visible partially, as she was climbing into the 
machine. 


Before Mark could glance at them any more, there was a 
strong knock on the door. A high pitched voice called 
inwards. 


“Are you okay, Mister Mark? Daddy is worried...” 


Mark paused. “Be out in a minute!” 


The only sound in the dining room was the soft clinking 
of silverware, and the small giggles of the children. Mark 
had elected not to elucidate the family onto his 
discovery. Better to get a hot meal, say his pleasantries, 
and be out before whatever dark secret this family was 
holding grabbed ahold of him, too. 


“Enjoying your meal, son?” 


Mark looked up. All of them, Wife, and children, were 
watching over him. 


Mark’s next thought probably should’ve been to try and 
ask why they were all looking at him the way they were. 
Or perhaps where The Father was? But he didn’t get to 
ask anything, because everything was going black. 


Mark passed out into his plate. 


Father turned another page in the scrapbook. "Oh, do 
you remember when we played in the clearing, with 
baseball?" 


The Son smiled at him. He definitely remembered that. 


Father smiled too, tousling his hair. "Oh, the factory 
days... remember when all the families out there, they all 
just kept living in such squalid conditions." 


The Wife bristled. "Dreadful." 


"Yes, yes..." Father grabbed Mark's head, and forced 
him to look back at the scrapbook. "You poor boy. | feel 
bad for this. | really do. Your wife left you, took the 
child... that’s why we had to keep you. So you can 
learn." 


The family all shook their heads "No!" 


"We've had so many stages shared together... 
Remember the Victorian days, when you gals had to 
wear those corsets?" 


They all nodded, in unison. 


"Even then, in trying times, we stood together." Father 
kept turning pages. "Ohhh... Here's a cute one. It's from 
when we had all of those Jap tourists, coming on... 
between the four of them, your mom ended up in some 
queer sort of evening gown! 


A collective chuckle echoed throughout the house. 


"Look, Mark..." Father grabbed the ropes covering his 
shoulder, playfully rustling him. "I think we've learned a 
lot about modern families from your stories. But people 
like you... | sincerely hope they're an aberration. Moving 
out away from your son... it goes against all values of 
family." 


For a moment, there was silence, punctuated only by the 


quiet clinking of silverware, and the eternally brewing 
storm outside. 


"But hey... maybe | could build a cabin. If the kids ever 
grow up, they could live in it!" 


The family laughed. 


"Kids, can you take Mister Mark out of the room? We’ve 
got a lot of learning ahead of us, and he needs to rest 


up." 


Mark felt himself waking up, as he had many times 
before. The children had wanted him to come outside 
and build a snowman with them, and how would he ever 
be able to say no to the children? They were the most 
important part of life. 


Rising from the mattress, Mark heard the singing and 
dancing outside. The children had already awakened, 
and were anxious for him to get out there. Slipping on 
shoes, he caught a glance of himself in the mirror. 


Oh, how he had changed in the past months, years... 
some time, but what did it matter? Time flies with good 
company, and here he had some of the best any man 
could ask for. 


He skipped out of the bedroom, sliding into the dining 
room. The Wife and The Father were seated, looking out 
the window to the sound of smiling children. Father had 
grown old, but wise with time. He’d taught Mark so much. 


Father saw Mark, and smiled. “Mark... may | have the 
privilege of speaking to you in private?” 


“Certainly.” 
Gesturing to the dining room, Father led them inside. 


“I'll be frank with you, Mark. | want you to be my 


replacement.” 
Mark blinked. “Sir?” 


Leaning against the wall, Father sighed. “I’m getting old, 
Mark. You’ve grown up so wonderfully with the kids, and 
the wife... | think you can take care of them.”