As he spoke, | saw the light again. There it was, closer this time, 
slowly bobbing left and right, left and right. There was another, and 
another, another... 


"You also forgot the best part. Jack figured out that though his 
Hellfire would never go out, on some days it was stronger. 
Particularly one day. It's a day of significance, ancient and cursed. 
They call that day All Hallow's Eve, or more recently, Halloween." 
The lights where closer now, more coming into view every second. | 
realized that Lucia, Hank and | had huddled together close, while 
Will was standing totally still, a knowing smile on his face. He 
casually rolled his head, revealing a white, puckered scar going all 
around his neck. 


"Jack eventually figured out that on Halloween, his Hellfire was 
strong enough that he could use it to take people's souls for himself. 
All he had to do was use it to burn off someone's head. The Hellfire 
would spread to their necks, and burn on forever, trapping their 
souls and bending them to Jack's will." 


The lights were very close now, so close | could make out more 
details. They were faces. Carved faces. Jack-o-lanterns. One came 
into the light of the fire. A dark figure, wrapped in rotting cloth. It 
seemed taller than a person should be. On it's head, it wore a jack- 
o-lantern like a helmet. But that couldn't be right, there'd be no room 
for the head and the candle... 


"| really like the way pumpkins look. Much nicer than turnips. 
Roomier too." 


One of the figures stepped closer. | looked into the pumpkin, 
searching for a face. All | saw was a stump of a neck, a small flame 
pouring out from the throat. The smell of burnt meat filled my nose. 


"Oh, | almost forgot! in some versions of the story, they call him 
Will." 


| can still hear his laughter echoing in my ears. I'll never be able to 
forget that cackle of his, so deep it sounds more like he's choking. 
No matter how long | walk the swamps, day or night, rain or shine, | 
can never seem to get it out of my head. 


Result: SCP-661 attempted use of various phrases to prevent attack 
but was unsuccessful. Attack lasted four minutes before D-313217 
was restrained, after which SCP-661 was observed to be visibly 
shaken. Testing suspended until further notice. 


Addendum 661-3: Requests by SCP-661 


-"Let me out." (Denied) 
-"No, really. Let me out." (Denied) 
-"This isn't funny. Let me out!" (Denied) 
-"| demand to be released! I'm a US citizen! You can't do this to me!" 
(Denied) 
-One (1) box of Havana Limited Special Edition Cuban Cigars 
($2,012 in USD) (Denied) 
-One (1) box of Miami Coast Cigars ($299 in USD) (Denied) 
-One (1) box of "generic crap cigars" [sic]. (Denied) 
(1) pack of cigarettes. (Denied) 
(1) pack of Nicotine chews. (Approved) ~ Seriously, people. As 
funny as it is watching him beg, addiction is no small matter. -Dr. 


-A computer with internet access (Denied) 

-A computer (Denied) 

-Television with cable (Denied) 

-Television capable of playing digital or analog recordings (Denied) 
-Books written since confinement (Denied) 

-Books published prior to confinement (Approved) ~ Human beings 
need SOME entertainment to maintain sanity. - Dr. 

-CD player (Approved) ~ Since he can't read, at least give hima 
non-record capable music device. - Dr. 

-Writing utensils and a pad (Denied) ~ —Risk of attempts to use 
power through written materials. Has not been performed as of yet, 
but still might be within subject's power range. Dr. 

Addendum: — There is no evidence or reason to believe SCP-661’s 
power can extend to written objects. However, this request remains 
denied for security reasons. Agent 


Due to the backlog of requests, Dr. has been forced to ask other 
personnel to assist him in processing SCP-661's requests 


Requests not processed by Dr. 
-One (1) Leather Jacket (Denied. Subject placed into Restraint 


Sympathy 


It had taken a long time and a lot of practice, but he was now able to 
draw pretty well. Or at least he thought so. He could also write well 
enough that he could ask for just about anything he could think of. 
The guards were fairly nice most of the time and usually did their 
best to get him what he wanted, but there were a lot of things that he 
wasn't allowed to have. Whenever those kind of requests were 
denied he would also invariably get a short lecture about having to 
stay healthy and eat right and all the other things that his mother 
would normally have said. All in all, it was almost like being home 
again, except that he wasn't very good at video games any more 
and he couldn't see any of his friends. 


They did let him watch TV whenever he wanted, though, which was 
nice of them. He wasn't really good at keeping track of the date, so it 
was through watching that he realized that it was that time of the 
year again. He remembered from last year the time he'd spent under 
the careful, loving watch of his parents, running around the 
neighborhood with his best friends, gathering an enormous hoard of 
candy that their parents were careless in hiding afterwards and how 
sick they'd gotten afterwards. 


It wasn't until several minutes later that he realized what he'd been 
drawing while his mind wandered, and as he looked down at the 
jack-o-lanterns and children in costumes that he'd doodled, his heart 
sank. Screeching angrily at himself for dwelling on things he couldn't 
have any more, he dropped the crayon and retreated to the back 
corner of his room. He didn't come out for several hours, even 
ignoring the guard that was his favorite when he asked what was 
wrong. If he noticed the sympathetic frown on the guard's face as 
the man pored over his drawings before eventually disappeared 
from the room, he didn't care. 


As all children eventually do, he stopped sulking and came out of 
hiding, too hungry and thirsty to stay angry at himself. If he were 


capable of rubbing his eyes, he would have done so, as he stared 
open-mouthed at the (to him, at least) enormous pile of treasure that 
had appeared while he wasn't looking. Every kind of candy he ever 
loved, even the ones that his parents wouldn't let him have because 
they were "too bad for him", were sitting there just for him. Maybe, 
just maybe, this Halloween wouldn't be so bad after all. 


A severe reprimand and administrative action have been 
levied against Agent Johnson due to his involvement and 
responsibility in Incident 1192-09, as his willful violation 

of standard procedure in his handling of SCP-1192 could 
have resulted in grave physical damage to the specimen. 


While Agent Johnson's career service vitae speaks much 
of his experience in the field and normally excellent 
handling of sapient objects, his poor judgment in this 
incident put him, his coworkers, and the Special 
Containment objects under their care in danger and such 
unprofessional behavior cannot be tolerated at the 
Foundation. Effectively immediately, Agent Johnson is to 
be transferred to Observation Post - for a period of no 
less than twelve (12) months, during which he will have 
plenty of time to reflect upon his priorities. 


Dr. 
Senior Observer 


Los Recuerdos de los Muertos 


Carmela carefully packed a basket of ofrendas for the trip to the 
cemetery. A cloth doll for Hernanda, a bottle of tequila for Fernando, 
a bouquet of cempasuchil... The rest of the family would bring their 
own gifts, but these were hers. And hopefully her lost family would 
visit and comfort her from Heaven. Abuela Maricela used to say that 
she talked with her husbands after drinking Los Recuerdos, but 
Carmela never had. Of course, she'd never sipped the wine of a 
husband or daughter before, only that of cousins of cousins or 
uncles or ancestors dead before she was born. 


Picking the berries from their graves only four months ago had been 
one of the hardest things she'd ever done. The temptation to eat 
them right then and there had been nearly overwhelming, but she 
knew that all of them would be needed to make the wine. Don 
Penaranda was the only one in their village who knew the exact 
recipe, but he had assured her that it would be ready in time for Dia 
de los Muertos, even if only barely. 


He said he would bring the bottles by later that afternoon, after the 
flight of the kites. Carmela used to love flying them with her family 
and friends, and would try to put on the best face she could, but 
watching the messengers to the dead fly overhead was less joyous 
now. Abuela Maricela said it would pass, that time and Recuerdos 
would help ease the pain, but Carmela didn't know. The large, 
colorful kites had been Hernanda's favorite part of the celebrations. 


Carmela's hands stilled as she stared off into the distance, the 
memories of the brightly colored kites mixing with the faces of her 
little girl and husband, and the green grass covering their fresh 
graves... Everything blurred together into one great kaleidoscope of 
thought and grief and reluctant hope and memory and color and love 
and family and... 


...-ernanda came back to herself and looked in awe at the shot 


glass in her hands. 


"What did you see, niNa?" asked her mother, as she recorked the 
bottle and put it on the altar with the others. 


"| was Tia Carmela!" exclaimed the little girl in wonder. 


"| Know, niha. This was her bottle of Recuerdos. Did you see 
anything special? They say that Jos muertos can talk to us through 
them." 


"It was her first Dia de los Muertos after her family died. She was so 
sad! But a little happy, too! Why was she happy, Mama?" 


"Oh, that is a special memory, nifa," smiled her mother. "Sometimes 
people are sad because someone they love is gone, but happy 
because they can see them again, like you just did. That's was /os 
Recuerdos are for." 


"Will you make tequila like this, too, Mama?" 


"Of course, nina, and you will too someday." Her mother scooped 
her up and swung her around, then carried her out of the room. 
"Now let's go down to the cemetery and clean Tia Carmela's grave, 
and watch the kite contest." 


Guiser's Night 


Doctor Moore took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes again. The 
last handful of aspirin hadn't taken effect yet, and the glare from the 
three monitors was piercing her throbbing headache with an acute 
pain she felt sharply behind her right eye. The sterile white paint of 
the cell walls somehow looked brighter through the security 
cameras. A muted cacophony of intermittent beeps, digital tones 
and industrial machinery laced through the background of the 
observation chamber. SCP-480 required intensive monitoring and 
staff attention at all times, but what really made these shifts hard 
was that there was never anything visible in 480's holding cell. The 
mixture of fear and intense boredom was stultifying. Dr. Moore 
shook her head and tried in vain to regain her lost focus. 


"Moore. | need the infrared spectrography variance," wheezed Dr. 
Hirsch. 


Dr. Moore started. Where were the numbers? Why couldn't she 
remember which monitor? 


"Uh, just a second, sir." 


Dr. Hirsch fumbled in his labcoat for a package of Camels. The ting 
of a Zippo was somehow audible through the background noise. He 
took a long drag on his cigarette, and exhaled a stream of smoke 
that doubled as a sigh. "C'mon Moore. The breach wasn't even three 
weeks ago. Infrared. What is it?" 


Squinting at the middle screen, Dr. Moore carefully moved her finger 
along screens of various scrolling data. At last. "Five seven three 
sigma eighteen point three. Don't smoke those in here, they're bad 
for the equipment and they give me a headache." 


Dr. Hirsch consulted his tablet and punched in a few numbers. 
"We're in quite a lot of trouble if a little smoke can take down a Class 
Two rad-hardened EMP-shielded workstation, Moore. And you've 


got headaches because you sleep two hours a night. | told you to 
take an extra month off." 


"There's too much work, sir." 


Dr. Hirsch punched more numbers into the tablet. "Yeah, yeah there 
is. But you're not doing me any favors like this, Ellen. Or yourself. 
I've tried asking nicely, but I'm ordering you, as your superior, to 
take some damn time off. Effective immediately.” 


Dr. Moore stood up quickly from her chair. "But I've just gotten back! 
SCP-480 is a unique and dangerous-" 


"Yes, it is what it is, Doctor," said Dr. Hirsch, "and you're an 
important part of keeping it here. But as you yourself know, we need 
everyone at one hundred percent. | need you to go home, Ellen. 
Take care of your mom. Take care of yourself. And | don't want to 
see you back here until you've had a full week of eight hours a 
night." 


"But-" 


"No. No arguments. We've got Ramirez from Site-23 to help us 
cover for now. You're an integral part of containment, Doctor, and | 
need you at your best." 


Dr. Moore felt the initial anger drain away. Replacing it was the 
realization that Dr. Hirsch was correct, followed by a wave of 
exhaustion that she could no longer hold at bay. 


She logged her ID out of the terminal, gathered her personal effects, 
and headed to the antechamber. As the door closed behind her, Dr. 
Hirsch called after her. 


"Hey. Ellen. Halloween tonight," he said. He mimicked a steering 
wheel with his hands, the cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Watch 
out for trick-or-treaters." 


Dr. Moore managed a weary smile and a wave goodbye, and 
headed into the security checkpoint. The doors closed behind her. 
She hung up her labcoat, and unbuttoned the top button of her 
blouse. She placed the leads of the wall-mounted ECG monitor on 


her chest, and waited expectantly by a speaker mounted next to the 
monitor. The familiar automated voice soon greeted her. 


"Initiating memetic containment protocols. Please state the 
approved passcode." 


Dr. Moore cleared her throat and spoke into a small microphone 
next to the ECG monitor. "At no point during the last shift has 
SCP-480 made contact with me." 


Seconds passed. Dr. Moore had begun to stand up to head out, but 
the doors remained closed. The automated voice spoke. 


"Vital signs incorrect. Please state the approved passcode." 


Dr. Moore shrugged. She resolved to call Security in to calibrate the 
ECG when she returned. She repeated the passcode into the 
microphone. This time, the automatic security doors opened. She 
removed the leads, and headed outside the facility, into the fading 
sunlight of the late afternoon. 


She sat in her car, parked in the driveway and watching the window 
above the garage. It was dark enough now that the light in the 
window made the room clearly visible from the outside. The light 
shone the brighter for the lack of a working streetlight, out of 
commission for two months now, she noted to herself ruefully. To 
Dr. Moore, rural living meant hour-long commutes and waiting 
interminably for maintenance to such niceties of civilization as paved 
roads and electricity. She understood why Site-415 had to be where 
it was, but cursed her lot in the countryside once more. Her head 
was swimming. Why had she tried to go back so soon? Alan was 
right. Tired researchers meant casualties in her line of work. Or 
worse. 


The light in the window suddenly blinked out. Dr. Moore heaved 
herself out of her car and finally made her way inside her house. 


"She spent most of the day sleeping, so no changes there." The 
nurse put on her coat as Dr. Moore stepped in through the front 
door. "Dosage on her pain meds is steady. | changed her sheets 


and cleaned everything out. Not much improvement, but it's not 
getting any worse." 


Dr. Moore nodded as she slumped in a chair in the kitchen. "Thanks 
Juana. Did...did..." She gestured futilely towards the staircase as 
she leaned her forehead against her hand, searching for words. 


"Your mother?" Juana raised an eyebrow slightly. 
"Yeah. Mom. Did she say anything while | was out?"