did not even understand what he said, as they were no longer able 
to perceive words, or think in any way. It was only then that the 
Shepherd remembered their strange silence and their empty gaze. It 
was as if that the lambs only looked like such, but were now 
something else. 


In slight panic and rage, the Shepherd exerted his power over flesh 
to the flock. The flock would have been reduced to puddles of blood 
or mashed meat, but instead, they started approaching. He did 
manage to peel off their skin, but only to reveal the horrifying 
machines beneath. Their spines were now metallic, their body parts 
were now grinding gears, and their blood was replaced with oil. They 
were indeed no longer lambs, as the metal parts, crudely pieced 
together, constructed unimaginable deformity. But even so, the parts 
somehow fit into each other perfectly well, as they made no sound at 
all. 


The Shepherd took a step back, as he found himself surrounded. 
The lambs, the formerly tamed flock was onto him now, and he felt 
undignified. He easily smashed one to pieces, and the other one 
was sent back ripped in half. But for each lamb he tore down, more 
came in its place. Even the shattered pieces on the ground 
struggled to reform, and they quickly became monstrosity worse 
than before. 


He had fought, but his flock was huge, the number of lambs he 
herded was unparalleled, even among his fellow herders. And there 
was no other material for him to use, as the wolves had just burnt 
down his supplies; there was no cattle for him to turn into beasts, as 
the wolves had taken them; there was no way for him to recover and 
regain strength, as the wolves had turned his potential food into 
metallic monsters. 


The Shepherd struggled before his now mindless flock, each with 
sharp teeth and claws just like the wolves who made them. He took 
down one after another until there were too many wounds for him to 
heal himself, until the sharp metal spikes impaled his body, until he 
bled and was no longer able to call the blood back. The wolves 
watched this from the forest. They howled and smiled. 


Finally, the Shepherd fell. The former lambs, now beasts of 


clockwork, bit and clawed at him silently. The wolves came out of 
the forest, and walked among their foul creations. They approached 
the once powerful Shepherd, and laughed. 


It was the night of the wolves, as they bit through the Shepherd’s 
neck, and feasted on his body. 


A long time ago... 


“Why are you even protecting them?” The Karcist laughed, “Aren’t 
they merely lost lambs for you, food for your hungry dragon god? 
And | am but a Shepherd of Flesh, herding the aimless flock. They 
live until they are harvested, or when they are clawed down by 
beasts of the wild. What is the difference, if they end up in my 
dishes, or in your beastly mouth?” 


“| shall be the Wolf then.” The Mekhanite answered, “I shall follow in 
your shadows, and remove the lambs from your flock. | shall 
eternally haunt you, as the lambs taken are lambs no more.” 


Chapter Two: The Island Murder Mystery Show 


Evan is dead. 


Marjory found him hanging from the tire swing's rope, 
with a weird symbol drawn on his back. It looked like 
some kind of voodoo thing, like witch doctors draw in the 
dust in shitty horror flicks. It was drawn in blood, but he 
didn't have a scratch on him, and for some reason that 
just makes it worse. 


I'm really glad | didn't tell anyone about the gun. 


William thinks it was Markus, that he's hiding on the 
island somewhere, that the canoe thing was just a fake 
to let him disappear. | dunno. He seemed like a pretty 
okay guy to me. 


Marjory is curled in a ball on the couch now, crying her 
eyes out. Tim is with her, trying to help. He found some 
candles in one of the drawers, so tonight we'll probably 
do some kind of funeral... Evan's body is in the 
entryway, wrapped in the deflated raft from the plane. He 
was a cute kid. This is fucked up. 


All afternoon | sat at the end of the driveway, thinking 
about how the front half of the plane was just gone, with 
a perfectly straight edge exactly like the cliff. It seems 
crazy, but I'm beginning to wonder. Probably best to 
push that thought aside. We've already got a maniac to 
deal with. 


Just finished Evan's funeral, for what it's worth. We 
buried him out in the garden by the swing, and tried not 
to think about the fact that he'd been killed there. 


termed SCP-961-1, varies in physical appearance and dress with 
each test. The only consistent feature described by observers is a 
pair of empty black apertures centered where the eyes should be, 
though much larger than eye sockets (approximately 5 centimeters 
in diameter). People nearby will converse with the entity without 
finding the apertures remarkable. At the end of many hallucinations, 
after the entity ceases to influence events, it will turn towards one of 
the observers and speak to them; other observers will hear 
unintelligible conversation, then the hallucination ends. The observer 
will not recall what was said to them, only a strong sense of fear or 
panic. The observer who spoke with the entity will develop acute 
phobia of sleep, darkness, and being alone, which will subside over 
the course of the following month. 


Addendum 961-1: Report Log 


Date Number of Observers Description 
/23/0 1 First display of 

SCP-961 abilities. 
Single researcher was 
sweeping in 
containment chamber 
when cycle ended. 
Later reported a 
hallucination in which 
a musician is stabbed 
through the heart by 
his girlfriend. All 
details and 
descriptions match the 
events of the death of 
[REDACTED] in 200 
though death was 
ruled a suicide. 
Investigation into 
SCP-961's abilities 
begins. 

02/10/0 4 First fully-regulated 
test of SCP-961. 
Observers saw a 


Everybody said a few words, just mumbling compliments 
mostly. It's not like any of us knew him well enough to 
have anything real to say. Hopefully, once we're rescued 
he can get a real proper burial with a real funeral back in 
civilization. 


Marjory hasn't stopped crying since she found him. She 
keeps saying something about the symbol and her 
brother and trailing off. I'd write more about it, but she's 
honestly pretty tough to understand, and | think she's just 
raving anyhow. Marie seems to think she knows more 
about what happened than she's told us. The whole time 
we were in the garden she was staring at Marjory, 
glaring, while the candlelight flickered off a black eye I'm 
not entirely certain | believe she got in the crash. 


William smoked nonstop the whole time, burning through 
all the cigarettes he had like there was a prize at the 
bottom of the pack. He was the only one at the service 
not holding a candle, and the glowing red cherry at the 
end of his fingers somehow only emphasized the fact 
that he was standing in darkness. Marjory was the only 
one crying. | can't help but begin to form some opinions 
of my own. 


After the burial, we all went our separate ways for a while 
except for Marjory and Tim. | retreated to one of the 
bedrooms of the house and sat for a while reading a 
trashy paperback | found on a shelf by the light of an 
emergency glowstick from the raft. | must have gotten 
two or three chapters in, but damned if | can say what it 
was about, or even what the title was. We were all on 
autopilot, | think, still reeling from the one two punch 
dealt to us by fucked up fate. Eventually | gave up on the 
book and just started writing. 


| don't know what happened to Evan, but | have a feeling 
something's going to go down between William and 
Marie, or between Marie and Marjory. William seems to 
have focused on Markus- that's a good thing. If Markus 
isn't here, they can't get violent. Marjory was the first one 


to find the body, but | don't think she could kill a kid. Tim 
was on the other end of the island, sitting on the front 
porch of the house. | could see him, and he could see 
me, so nobody suspects us. | don't get the impression 
Marie's suspicion is faked, which leaves William. Could 
he be faking his rage at Markus to cover up a murder? 
Why the fuck would he kill his own son? | don't want to 
believe that. What did happen to Markus, anyway? 


Regardless, I'm keeping this gun with me 
at all times from now on. 


The Karcist And The Mekhanite 


The demiurge who made the world 
Screamed with all its might. 

It did its very best to make 

Its realm devoid of light — 

But no one cared, because back then, 
There was no wrong or right. 


Then MEKHANE, who witnessed this, 
It wasn't pleased at all 

To see a god so hideous 

With humans in its thrall — 

And so it gave the humans will, 

The will to be appalled. 


The sea was wet as wet could be, 
And Gyaros, dry as dry. 

A dreadful fight was yet to come 
In ancient times gone by. 

No birds were flying overhead 
(They didn't want to die.) 


The Karcist and the Mekhanite 
Were walking close at hand; 

They wept like anything to see 
The pure and virgin sand — 

‘If this were only plagued with filth!’ 
The Karcist did demand. 


‘lf seven tons of putrid flesh 

Upon the beach were poured, 

Do you suppose,’ the Karcist said — 
The other'd hear no more. 
‘Machines,’ exclaimed the Mekhanite, 
"Those would improve the shore! 


‘O humans, come and be my slaves!’ 
The Karcist did beseech. 

‘A raging fight, a show of might, 
Along the bloodstained beach: 

We'll do away with Mekhanites 

And godhood, you will reach.’ 


The eldest human heard his voice 
And ran and hid in dread, 

He sacrificed a goat to Zeus, 

And as the creature bled, 

‘Deliver us from Karcist beasts!’ 
Unto the sky he pled. 


The other humans hurried up — 

Their minds were not their own. 

They donned their mail of tumor-plates 
And sharpened spears of bone, 

And on the surface of their skulls, 

A thousand eyes were grown. 


The Karcist and his new recruits 
Marched on a mile or so, 

Until they met the Mekhanites, 
With robot gods in tow. 

The great colossus at their side 
Let out an eerie glow. 


"The time has come,’ the Karcist said, 
‘Surrender to the flesh, 

The blood, the dark contagions, 

The claws that slice and thresh, 

And horrors none the world has seen 
Since ancient Erikesh" 


‘But wait a bit,’ the servants cried, 
‘Before the havoc wreaks, 

It seems we're not equipped to face 
Their mechanized techniques." 

The Karcist ate their souls with rage — 
He had to cull the weak. 


‘You killed your fighting force, you oaf,' 
The Mekhanite exclaimed. 

‘It only serves to prove the reason 
You'll go down in flames: 

Intelligence and reasoning, 

To you, are marks of shame.’ 


But lon's reinforcements came 

From temples underground, 
Constructed from unearthly flesh 

That wheezed with sickly sound. 

The cannons blazed, the venom poured, 
‘Til not a soul was found. 


'O Karcists,' said the Foundation. 
‘We thought your time was done 
When Gyaros fell to MEKHANE!' 
But answer there came none — 
And this was scarcely odd, because 
[REDACTED] everyone. 


The Keterlord 


The Keterlord sighed, slumped on his stool, and stared down 
through his nearly-empty glass at the grain lines on the bar's 
wooden surface. Today was his birthday, but nobody at work had 
remembered or bothered to recognize it. 


He didn't feel much like a Keterlord at this moment, nor much like a 
lord of anything really—just another Foundation clock puncher who'd 
punched out for the day, now drinking himself into oblivion until the 
time came to punch in again tomorrow morning. 


He despised the nickname. The security grunts had given it to him 
on account of a certain, regrettable question he'd asked during his 
second day of orientation at Site 19. And it had stuck. Even now, 
nearly five years later, he was positive that at least a few of his 
colleagues didn't know his real name. 


"Fuck 'em," he muttered, before sucking down the last of his drink 
and pushing the empty glass toward the bartender: "Another scotch, 
neat." He was so accustomed to being addressed as "Keterlord" or 
"The Keterlord" that sometimes it felt more real to him than what his 
mother called him. 


That fateful orientation question had seemed benign enough at the 
time he asked it. After all, he held a PhD in Materials Science from 
MIT. He'd simply been curious about the choice of metals in a few of 
the Keter-class containment cells. But the wording of the question 
—"Don't you think it would be better if..."—had made him sound like 
a know-it-all, like an overconfident kid trying to assert his self- 
assured cockiness before he'd actually proved himself. 


But the Keterlord had proved himself, eventually, despite those early 
months of second-rate assignments and supervisors taking credit for 
his work. He had designed countless alloys, polymers, and 
composites to meet the Foundation's ever-expanding needs. From a 
fabric that could stop knives to a plastic strong enough to mold into 


firearms, he'd churned out new patents like they were lab reports. 
Still his colleagues mocked him with that nickname, even as his 
work produced containment cells strong enough to hold God 
himself. 


The Keterlord grinned at that thought as he sipped his drink. God 
descends to earth with trumpets blaring and holy fire raging, only for 
the Foundation to drag him off and lock him up in a five-by-five cell. 
Any prophets would get "Class C amnesiacs" of course, which as he 
understood was only the latest O5 euphemism for a bullet to the 
head. 


He downed the remaining scotch and pushed the glass forward. As 
he looked up to find the bartender, he noticed a woman at the other 
end of the room, sitting at a table alone, and looking in his direction. 
He could see green eyes behind her black-rimmed, technocratic 
glasses. Her dark brown hair contained a few streaks of grey, a few 
shades lighter than her charcoal suit. 


The Keterlord undressed her in his scotch-addled mind. She looked 
familiar—had he seen her at the Site 19 mess? Perhaps elsewhere? 
Before he could place her, she was leaning against the bar next to 
him, and he could feel the warmth of her side through his coat. 


"You work at the farm," she said. 
"| don't—" 


"—Relax. | do too, and | know you recognized me sitting over there." 
She smiled and raised two fingers to signal the bartender, who slid 
two full glasses to her. 


"Tough day?" she asked. 
"Don't want to talk about it." 
"That's alright," she said, handing him one of the glasses. 


"Thanks," he said, knocking back the drink in one motion. "| haven't 
seen you here before. What's your—" the Keterlord stopped mid- 
sentence as he felt the liquor hit his bloodstream, "—your," but he 
couldn't get the last word out. 


"Are you alright?” she asked with a concerned look. 
"|—" his vision began to blur. "I—" 


The last thing he saw was a discreet smile creep across the 
woman's face, then it all went black. 


He awoke violently to a bucket of ice water poured over his head, 
which ached terribly, seated in a cold metal chair in a dark room. 


"Where am |?" he said, "What is this?" Then he remembered the 
woman in grey, the drink she'd given him. 


The room was pitch black, and even as his eyes adjusted, all he 
could see were the outlines of several figures in the darkness. He 
tried to move, but his wrists were cuffed behind his back, and he'd 
been strapped to the chair with thick nylon webbing. He heard 
voices whispering. 


".,.. think he's awake ... don't get too close ... " 


"THE MIGHTY KETERLORD HIMSELF, | PRESUME!" another 
voice boomed from out of the darkness. 


"I'm not—" he felt tears welling up. 


"Don't try to deny it," a voice cut him off, "We know what you are, 
Keterlord, and you belong to us now." 


"You don't understand," said the Keterlord, "I'm just an—" 


"Just a what?" a third voice said, "A monster? A weapon? A 
plaything of your beloved Foundation?’