The footage is said to depict the apparently deceased Miss Ekdahl, 
lying on the ground in a wooded area presumed to be in the vicinity 
of Schoolcraft County, sometime at night. An off-screen voice at the 
start of the broadcast announces the phrase "how to correct the 
mistakes of the past, coming at eleven." Beyond this point, 
descriptions of the broadcast vary. 


In several accounts, the broadcast is said to merely be twelve 
minutes of footage of the body of Miss Ekdahl, before a loud static 
burst and the end of the transmission. Others state that at certain 
points in the footage, Miss Ekdahl's eyes appear to briefly open 
several times, though most attribute this to be a mistaken 
interpretation of several viewers due to the poor quality of the 
transmission. Some versions of the account mention that the 
offscreen voice speak at these points in the broadcast, but 
descriptions on this point are contradictory. 


A person claiming to have seen the Manistique Broadcast posted 
their account of the footage in the early 1990s, on a now-defunct 
pirate broadcasting usenet group. While the user's description of the 
early portions of the footage are consistent with other accounts, their 
account diverges drastically at approximately the six minute mark, 
where Miss Ekdahl is described to stand up, despite numerous large 
wounds and extensive trauma to the chest region. She is then 
described as shuffling slowly into the surrounding woods, before the 
broadcast ends with the same static burst at the twelve minute mark. 


Due to the lack of widespread television recording capabilities at the 
time of the broadcast, as well as the timing of the signal interruption, 
it is unlikely that any recordings of the Manistique Broadcast exist. 
Still photos purported to be taken from the broadcast have been 
posted occasionally on image sharing sites; however, most users 
doubt the veracity of these photos, given the possibility of image 
manipulation. 


Certain details are frequent sources of discussion among those 
interested in the Manistique Broadcast. Of the four disappearances 
connected to the case of Miss Ekdahl, hers are the only remains that 
have yet to be recovered. Two of the persons reported missing were 
later recovered with injuries similar to those apparently suffered by 
Miss Ekdahl; the remains of the third person were found in an 
advanced state of decomposition, making confirmation of the cause 
of death impossible to determine. Miss Ekdahl's mother claimed on 
an episode of Mornings With Len in 1989 to have seen her outside 
of her home during the nighttime on several occasions, and has 
consistently advocated for authorities to keep her case open, 
despite the official close of the investigation in 1992. In 1984, a 
private equity firm purchased 300 acres of forest in Schoolcraft 
County, located approximately two miles from Miss Ekdahl's former 
home, and have closed public access to the parcel since. Several 
lost media forum users have reported receiving threatening phone 
calls late at night after visiting this area, as well as other forms of 
unspecified harassment. 


While the existence of a signal interruption affecting WLUC in 1982 
is beyond doubt, it is unlikely that the true nature, or even the 
precise contents, of that broadcast will ever be determined. 


The Other Side 


The gravel beneath his feet protested with a crunch as Rufus T. 
Heckle exited the alleyway, face-first into the acrid street smoke. He 
was not a very well-dressed man, though he held a distinct noble air 
around him, one that sent flies spiralling over his head and rats 
scurrying under dumpsters in shame when he coughed, throat 
smarting at the smog. But it was not the rats and flies and smog that 
occupied Rufus's mind as he approached the corner of 3rd and 
King's. It was the words the youngster had said at their last meeting 
three days ago, the cryptic "final message before death" every 
detective inevitably faces once or twice in his career. The Other Side 
is always just around the corner. 


It's a cafe, an inn, a safehouse, though not in the usual sense, the 
youngster had said. They say it's a very important place, the kind 
where the guy you're looking for might frequent. Rufus might have 
mentioned something about his job being very unlike the "usual 
sense", but let him continue. The youngster had nothing much left to 
say, though, and forty-six hours later his roommate found his set of 
clothes heaped over his shoes, at the start of a large bloody smear 
ending abruptly at the east window. It was the same window that, 
from two stories above, overlooked Rufus as he trod round the 
corner store, pausing only to scoop a handful of large pebbles from 
the sidewalk. "The Other Side is always just around the corner," he 
mouthed, like a forgotten nursery rhyme. "Just around the corner." 


One, two. Three, four. As if in a dream, he dropped them almost 
ritualistically as he rounded the block into the back alley, two before 
the corner, two after the corner. Crunch the gravel. Cough at the 
smoke from the street. There seemed to be a certain rhythm to it. / 
am doing this. Why am | doing this? He didn't even know if he was 
thinking anymore, the second round around the block nothing but a 
deep revenant calling from an ancient OCD. Corner store, here 
come the pebbles. One, two. Tie my shoe. Like a forgotten nursery 
rhyme. Three, four, knock on the door, and sure enough there at the 


side of the building was a pair of clear glass doors, tucked in low like 
the one from Alice in Wonderland. It even seemed just as small, 
cowering from the world in its cosy brick cubbyhole, and Rufus 
subconsciously stooped as he went through it. Above him, "The 
Other Side Cafe" hung daintily in embossed italics from velvety 
rope. 


It was an elegant affair, with glowing orbs keeping sentinel along the 
walls. Gas lamps? In this day and age? The checkerboard floor was 
odd too, shining like marble yet creaking like old wood when 
stepped on. Around him, patrons dined and drank, occasionally 
flickering (what?) like Chinese mask performers to reveal... 
something. Whatever it was, it left him with the strange mental 
image of a pale shell-less crab in the moonlight, grotesque yet 
familiar. The whole place was...how would he put it? Otherworldly. 


There was a two-seater near the corner, below a warm orb-light, and 
a genteel middle-aged man was sitting at it. There seemed to be 
something innately different about him, something that stood out, yet 
did not stand out from the contours of his face to the shapes of his 
shoes. Rufus immediately made a mental note of his appearance, 
and to his suprise found that he couldn't. Sure, the gentleman was 
probably forty-ish, with the look of a chap one'd probably find ona 
park bench feeding pidgeons somewhere. His attire did not just reek 
of "drab", it utterly defined it. It kept in the quiet of its seams, like the 
one guy at the party, the diplomatic one who never talked too much 
to anybody, and it was perfectly boring, even indescribable in its 
inanity. That was it. The drab man in the chair, the boringly 
impossible, impossibly boring man, he defied description, and he 
expected Rufus to sit down with him. No words, no signals. Just an 
expectation. 


"| suppose you know why I'm here?" said Rufus as he sidled in 
smoothly, though it was an empty assertion of power, a perfectly 
scripted line from an old noir movie. 


You're dealing with events way over your head here, kiddo. Best you 
stay out of this. said the impossible man. Except he didn't say it like 
that, he said instead, "Yes." 


Extending a hand (perfectly indescribable, thought Rufus), he 


greeted. "I'm the Proprietor." Even the way he said it sounded 
capital. "| hear about things from the patrons here and there, and | 
couldn't help but expect your arrival. Yves must have told you about 
the place." 


Rufus took his hand. "I'm Ryan Gore." Carefully chosen alias here, 
though deep inside he knew it wouldn't hide a thing from this oddly 
dull man. "Yves, that was his name? The kid who got killed?" 


"Killed? Hardly, though | can imagine he wish he were, Mister 
Rufus." 


They were both silent for a moment, as a maid in a gas mask 
passed by with tea. Need a cup, sweetie? she breathed. "No milk, 
one sugar, Rosie," said the Proprietor. Rufus merely smiled and 
waved no, thanks. Rosie the gas mask maid might have smiled 
back, and she set down a steaming teacup from her tray before 
giving a curt nod to the Proprietor and moving on. 


"So, what about the other cases? The gypsy woman on the twenty- 
second, the park vagrant on the twenty-fifth, what happened to 
them?" implored Rufus. 


"Same as the kid. What did you expect?" 
"Who killed...took them?" 


"Can't say for sure. Lots of people come and go through the Other 
Side, and it gets hard to keep track of who entered where from here. 
This is where the lines get thin, after all. | built this establishment on 
a rift, Mister Rufus, and it bleeds onto people, leaves a stain. If 
you're looking for the guy who took those people, following those 
stains would be very helpful indeed. Given the nature of the crimes, 
wouldn't you say he'd continue hunting round the same 
neighbourhood?" Proprietor took a long sip of his coffee. 


"Aha. Typical serial killer. How do you suppose | find this...stain?" 


"Why, just look at the patrons around you, Mister Rufus. Hell, there's 
even one trailing down your neck as we speak." 


Rufus glanced at his reflection on the immaculate checkerboard 


floor. Sure enough, a muddy streak was running from the end of his 
left ear down to the collarbone, looking more like a birthmark than 
anything now. He scratched at it almost instinctively. 


"Well, there you go. It's been nice talking to you, Mister Rufus, but 
sadly that's all the help | can afford to give to a stranger. Goodbye." 
The Proprietor might have smiled a bit here. 


"Thank you for the help." 


"Oh, there's no reason to thank me," said Proprietor. "Trust me. 
There won't be any." 


Rufus Heckle got up, tucked his chair in, and headed for the door 
before deciding to ignore the last bit. He was a detective, for what it 
was worth, and by God if he didn't do what he was paid to do. Good 
day to you, sir, breathed a maid as she held the door open for him. 


He exited the Other Side Cafe, breathing in the last fumes of warmth 
from within. 


"And a good day it shall be," he proclaimed to no one in particular. It 
echoed off the blank brick wall behind him, as he headed off into the 
cold. 


The Price of Beauty 


Lana woke up early that morning. Instantly, her gaze fell onto the 
form still sleeping beside her; her girlfriend, Maria. Lana smiled 
absently, and shifted from the bed in a way that wouldn't wake her 
partner, sleeping soundly. She was gorgeous, and Lana would 
never stop being surprised that the young woman chose to be with 
her. 


As she stood, her plump - no, fat, always fat - thighs rubbed together 
and jiggled as though there was an earthquake. She grimaced and 
pulled her pyjama shorts down a little, though it felt like they strained 
and failed to cover her thighs. She had a photo shoot today, and that 
always meant a lot of work beforehand. 


She headed to the en-suite, walking past photos framed on the wall. 
Some of her alone, from the agency, but many of the two together. 
At a glance, Lana could see when she was thinner, she could see 
herself as she was meant to be; a low collared top showing her 
collarbone, a close-up showing her cheekbones. She was surprised 
that her agency had kept her on, with her weight creeping up to the 
point of her being a wobbly, jelly-like creature with the cellulite and 
stretch marks that gave her body texture. 


She paused at the dresser and got out the small bag of tools that 
would prepare her for the day. On the bed, Maria snorted softly and 
rolled onto her other side, still asleep. Good. Lana hated having an 
audience when she was preparing. She took her bag through into 
the en-suite, shutting the door behind herself and turning on the 
lights around the mirror. 


“There's the answer if you want it,” her mind teased. 


She ran her hand across her plump cheek. One more pound and 
she was sure she would be dropped by her agency; one more 
pound and Maria would leave her. She felt sure of it all, despite 
these words not being exchanged. Desperate times called for 


and converted matter were sent back to Perimeter HQ for 
processing and transport. One team was able to recover a small 
sample of still living SCP-610 tissue substance from a building and 
pack it for research. Within the second hour of exploration of Site A 
series of echo-reverberation units were set up surrounding the hole 
with the intent of getting an accurate mapping of the hole and 
possible branch tunnels. 


At the end of this second hour before the echo units could be 
activated, seismic activity began to occur within Site A. Two teams 
of the original three remained on site, the third en route back to 
Perimeter HQ with samples. The third team was instructed to 
proceed back to Perimeter HQ when seismic activity began, and 
was told that Site A should not be returned to for assistance. 


Seismic activity at Site A capped at a 2.3 Richter level before 
petering off. Immediately following the seismic event a torrent of 
SCP-610 spores erupted from the hole and layered the area around 
it for a span of 50m. As all staff on site were in Level A hazardous 
materials suits, this spore burst was startling but did not lead to any 
infections. As the eruption was being reported both teams at Site A 
came under attack from aerial life forms infected with SCP-610. 
These organisms were captured by the remote drone video 
equipment and showed extremely advanced stages of infection; it is 
impossible to tell what they mutated from to this present state. Many 
of the avian creatures attacked by splitting their heads in half and 
clamping them against research members, pulling them into the air 
and dropping them into the hole when possible. These avian 
infected proved vulnerable to small arms fire. In dispatching them a 
total of two research staff were lost to the hole and one injured due 
to crossfire. The injured staff was put down immediately upon 
showing signs of infection due to his suit breach. 


Before video and radio contact was lost with the remaining teams 
inside Site A, a second seismic event began to occur starting out at 
in the 1 to 1.5 range in scale. Attention was directed at the hole to 
prepare for a second assault. A second spore burst erupted from the 
hole during the rising seismic activity. At the point where scales 
registered a 3 to 3.5 in force a new unseen SCP-610 entity began to 
emerge from the hole. The only footage captured of this creature 


desperate measures. 


“It's okay. They'll give you fakes. You can get everything rebuilt 
these days. Your tits, your arse, your face...” the delusions soothed 
her once more that this was the right thing to do. 


She fumbled in the bag for her device of choice. Her hands gripped 
cold metal. She knew a way to fix everything. 


Maria stirred half an hour after her partner had left the bed, her side 
now cold. She squinted and peered at the clock. Lana was obviously 
already up, and getting ready for her photoshoot. Never a better 
time to surprise her girlfriend, and lavish her with the reassurance 
Lana had made it apparent she needed as of late. Maria forced 
herself to wake up enough to stand and grab her dressing gown, for 
warmth.