Addendum 869-23, 5/30/2012: On 5/28/2012, Dr. Jacob 
Andrews failed to return from a survey of SCP-869 by 9 
P.M. and was not subsequently seen or heard from. As 
of that date, the copy of SCP-869's containment 
document filed in the central database was a word-for- 
word match for the SCP-869 containment document 
recovered by the Foundation in 1948. Comparison of Dr. 
Andrews' fingerprints against those archived following 
the initial recovery of the SCP-869 document in 1948 
suggest a high probability that Dr. Andrews is the 
unnamed doctor who provided that documentation to the 
Foundation. Subject 869-1, as he is referred to in later 
documents, remained in Foundation custody at Site 73 
until he died in 1967 when SCP-___ breached 
containment. 


Notes were found in Dr. Andrews' office after his 
disappearance in which he stated that, during his 
research, he had come to the conclusion that SCP-869 
represented a means of time travel from this era to one 
specific date in the past, and that he had decided to 
conduct an experiment to determine whether it was 
possible to use his knowledge of events yet to occur as 
of 1948 to alter the course of history. It can be assumed 
that his statements to the Foundation in 1948 regarding 
Lee Harvey Oswald and former Site Director Wertham 
comprised his attempt to make those changes to the 
course of history. 


Effective immediately, no personnel conducting surveys 
within SCP-869 are to leave the pier by any means other 
than SCP-869 itself. Any proposals for experiments to 
alter the course of history, or pass foreknowledge of 
post-1948 events to individuals within the anomaly, are 
preemptively denied. Survey personnel are authorized to 


there?” Finishing turning, he looked at the man standing just inside 
the barn. “Just moments.” The old man nodded as the assassin 
came forward, brandishing his knife. Bringing his knife back, he 
prepared to strike. However, he found himself unable to attack. 
Looking down, he noticed how strange it was that his intestines were 
wrapped around a pitchfork, and then everything went black. 
Sighing, the old Farmer retrieved his pitchfork from the dead cultist. 
“Not again.” 


The cultist walked down the street, pouring kerosene as he chanted 
the sacrificial mantra he had been taught when he first joined the 
Church. “...and let this offering to Him be used to restore him, for the 
purifying flames shall bestow unto their spirit the honor of forever 
being his... Oh. Hello.” 

Standing on the porch of a small building, a woman looked at the 
assassin. He began to grin like a Cheshire Cat. 

“You will make an excellent sacrifice, won't you?” 

Slowly pulling the blade from his robe, and setting the can of 
kerosene on the ground, he closed on the woman. Defiantly, she 
stood, not making a single move. “Perhaps you want to be his 
sacrifice?” Still standing defiant, the woman seemed to just glare at 
him, not reacting to his threats. The cultist closed on her, and 
prepared to pounce. Finally, the cultist lept forward and jammed the 
dagger in the young woman's throat. The blade lept into her throat, 
and then stopped. Confused, the cultist yanked the blade back, and 
stabbed again. Brusing the woman's long hair out of her face, the 
mannequin's painted-on visage glared back at him. 

“Son of a bi-” 

The wet sensation over the cultist's head caused him to turn in rage, 
thinking it to be some kind of joke. Screaming, he realized too late 
that kerosene Is a liquid. 

The old man sighed as the flaming cultist ran into the gift shop, 
setting it ablaze. 

“Probably woke everybody up with that screaming.” 


The cultist ran quickly into the barn, seeking refuge in one of the few 
buldings in the town that wasn't on fire. “If the damned Deacon will 
not aid me in an escape, | will make one myself. Perhaps one of 
these horses...” 

Quickly, the cultist levered open the door, and looked at the mighty 


creature before him. Doing as he had seen in the movies, he threw 
himself onto the horse, landing on the creature lopsided. Grabbing 
onto the creature's mane, the horse suddenly began to react. The 
assassin yelled in fear as the horse began to buck. Struggling to 
keep his hold, the man maintained his failing grip on the the heaving 
creature. He didn't notice the old man behind him. With one swift 
strike from a shovel, the cultist was knocked free from the horse, the 
creature still trampling the dirt floor. The second strike with the 
bladed edge of the shovel ensured he would not get up. 

Sighing, the farmer turned to leave the barn. 

“Well, at least that's over.” 

“Not quite.” 

The old man groaned as he felt the Deacon plunge his blade into his 
gut from behind. Pain filled his body as it slid through his gut, 
causing him to collapse. Finally, the Deacon pulled his blade from 
the old man, and began to walk away. As his vision faded, the old 
man muttered one last thing: 

“This.... statement is.... false.” 

The last of his blood having drained from his body, the old man 
collapsed. 

Stopping, the Deacon turned to look at the old man. 

“This.....2 Statement.....? is...... ? False...... ? This...... ? 
Statement...... ?” 


AMISH VILLAGE MASSACRE 

This morning, local police were called to the Blue Falls 
Amish community after reports of a bloodbath. Local 
police arrived to discover that all of the inhabitants of the 
small community had been slaughtered, homes burned, 
and many of their bodies showed marks of ritual 
mutilation. One possible suspect has been found in one 
of the surviving buildings, currently at the St. Jonah 
medical center. Some sources report that satanic groups 
may be to blame, however..... 


"Sir, that's the 5th village this month." 

"Your point...?" 

"Sir, the shapes carved into those bodies, the graffiti on those 
walls..." 


"What of them, Agent Macready?" 

"Those are marks of damnation, the same ones used in their 
scripture to mark 'Heretics.” 

"So what?" 

"Sir, if | didn't know better, I'd say the Church declared war on their 
one true enemy." 

Turning, the senior agent looked at Macready. 

"Sir, | think the Church just declared war on the Amish." 


Homaquis 


The moonlight made the clear pond dazzle on a cloudless night in 
Florida. The pond smelled of mildew, compost, and the fresh metal 
of the newly installed fence surrounding the lake. 


Sarah stood behind the chainlink fence separating her from the 
small pond. The fence was topped with barbed wire, and the only 
way in was through a gate on the other side of the pond, which was 
blocked by an armed guard. A sign attached to the fence stated that 
the area was private property, despite the fact that the only thing 
resembling human habitation was a wooden hut that was already 
half-composted. This pond had always belonged to nature, and, in 
Sarah's opinion, calling it private property was akin to theft. 


But Sarah couldn't argue with the sign, so she did the next-best 
thing. Licking her lips, she tasted the air. Unlike the desert, the air 
down in Florida was very humid, which would make channelling 
much easier. She straightened her back, unclenched her fists, and 
took in a deep breath. She felt the raw power of Water course 
through her veins like blood, and she directed the power into 
transforming herself into water, collapsing into a puddle like a folding 
chair. 


In this form, Sarah still had control over her body. She directed 
herself to slip around the cracks in the fence, and then, releasing her 
breath, she let go of the Water and returned to her previous form. 
Sarah opened her cloak. She had four bottles filled with purified, 
infused water prior to her transformation. Now she had three, and 
one nearly-empty bottle. She removed one of the bottles from its 
strap and uncorked it. 


She trotted to the edge of the pond. At the moment, her worst fear 
was being seen. She was exceptionally pale, and the full moon 
shone brightly tonight. Despite her cloak, an observant eye could 
spot her among the flat area surrounding the pond. She pulled her 
hood further over her head as she approached the pond's shore. 


Sarah turned the bottle upside-down and poured its contents onto 
the ground. This was bait for the creature that lurked inside of the 
pond. After setting her trap, Sarah crouched nearby and waited. 


After a minute or two, an arm made out of water emerged from the 
lake, and dug itself into the sandy ground. An identical arm dragged 
itself out a second later. The man made out of water pulled himself 
from the lake and marooned himself on the shore, then shakily stood 
up. Homaquis. 


As the Homaquis approached the puddle, Sarah approached him 
slowly. You needed to be slow around Homaauis, since they're 
easily startled. Sarah just stuck low to the ground, and crept 
towards- 


The Homaquis saw Sarah, screamed a high-pitched screech, and 
hugged Sarah. After getting over the initial shock of meeting an 
eager Homaquis, Sarah hugged the Homaquis back, and started to 
probe its mind. 


The Homaquis was born, as much as a Homaquis could be born, in 
this lake. He'd never bonded with anybody before; he was too timid. 
But a thousand years later, after the fall of the Golden Days, he 
regretted it. He regretted it so much. He longed for a true friend. 
He'd tried to make friends with bears, birds, and even a musky old 
man. But it never lasted long. 


Sarah extended her hand and offered that true friend. She offered a 
companion to stand by even in the greatest storms. She held her 
hand out. 


Then the Homaquis accepted it. 


Sarah opened her eyes and found that she wasn't in the embrace of 
the Homaquis anymore. In fact, the Homaquis was no longer there. 
She opened her palm, and found the Homaquis standing there, 
waving up at her. She waved back. 


"Hold it right there!" a voice yelled from behind her. 


Sarah turned around to see the guard pointing a pistol at her. She 


raised her hands behind her head, hiding the Homadquis from view. 
Sarah analyzed the guard. He was wearing a Kevlar vest with that 
damn shield inscribed on a badge in the front. He had a taser in his 
back pocket, and goggles around his neck. He was definitely ready 
for a fight. The guard, or whoever sent him here, was probably 
aware of the Homaquis, though he didn't know what it was capable 
of. 


Sarah still had the element of surprise. /t's showtime. she thought to 
herself. 


Taking in a deep breath, Sarah channeled Water. However, she 
didn't take in the Water from the bottle stored in her coat. She took 
her power from the Homaauis. It was beautiful, raw power, untainted 
by the clumsy hands of humans. As she collapsed into a puddle, the 
guard dropped his gun and reached for his taser. By the time he got 
it out, Sarah had let herself flow into the lake. 


The guard stood over the pond for a minute, debating whether or not 
to fire the taser in and potentially subdue his enemy. This gave 
Sarah the opportunity to creep out of the lake and reform behind the 
guard. The guard started to turn around, but it was too late. Sarah 
took a greatwood staff from her coat and slapped the guard across 
the hands, making him drop the taser. She then took a step in and 
used her momentum to bring the blunt end of the staff into the 
guard's jaw, knocking him out and sending him to the ground. 


After defending herself from the assailant, Sarah looked to her 
shoulder. The Homaquis stood there, and waved at her again. Sarah 
gave him a thumbs up, and let him slide down into her pocket. 


After the brief interchange, Sarah didn't waste any more time. The 
guard could've called for backup, and she didn't want to have to deal 
with more of them. Channeling Water, she slid back under the fence, 
and waded her way through waist-thick brush back to the Jeep she 
had taken to get to the pond in the first place. 


As she buckled herself into the car and let the Homaquis take refuge 
inside of the glove compartment, Sarah noticed her cell phone buzz. 
She took it out of the cup holder and opened the messenger app. 


Are you ready? 


Sarah stared at the phone screen for a minute, collecting her 
thoughts before responding. 


« The Shape of Water is Humanoid | » 


Home 


Everybody's so goddamn judgmental, that's the problem. Part of it is 
where | live; the rural South is full of nothing so much as 
busybodies, Nosy Parkers, nosy neighbors, everybody so nosy. 
Always wondering. Always gossiping. Always minding my business, 
like | need that. 


| don't know how the rumors started. | guess somebody came to my 
door, maybe taking up money for a church social, maybe something 
else. They saw inside, saw what my home was like, and ran full 
speed to cluck cluck cluck at their friends. "You should have seen it, 
Betsy, it was horrible. There was trash just everywhere. What a 
slob!" Cluck cluck. | don't need them. | don't want them. They 
shouldn't come back. 


| hate all the shows on television, all the nosy shows, all the shows 
for perfect thin beautiful people to gawk at the rest of us. The shows 
about the eight hundred pound men or the shows about women with 
ten kids or fifteen kids or twenty kids or the ones they say | should 
be on. | don't hoard things, that's not what I'm doing. You don't need 
to know what I'm doing. It's not your business. But I'll tell you 
anyway. 


You make it sound so weird. I'm not weird. I'm comfortable. Maybe 
you should look at how you live. You never thought of that, did you? 
You have your little feather dusters and your doilies and your 
placemats and your throw rugs and your hardwood floors, sticks 
stuck up all of your holier-than-thou asses. Everything has to have a 
place, everything has to be square and fit tightly, and God forbid 
somebody think you have a cat. | don't live like that. | refuse to. 
Things fall, things break, things get moved around and stacked atop 
of one another and squeezed into places, swept into corners and 
lined along walls. That's nature. That's whatchacallit, entropy. That's 
how | live. 


It's not an accident. It started with the stains, sure, and | guess | 


didn't start those. | don't know how they got started. That was when | 
lived all square like you people do, everything in straight lines and 
grids. But | couldn't help things bumping into one another, and one 
day, it seemed that was all it took. Stains, scrapes, marks, 
abrasions. It started with one, then three, then dozens, everywhere. 
You can't imagine how much scrubbing | did. | scrubbed and 
scrubbed and washed and sat on my hands and knees and elbows 
and pushed and pushed rags and sponges and steel wool and belt 
sanders and | tried to destroy it, cut things out, and it didn't help. It 
was how | was back then, with the OCD. Everything had to be clean, 
blank, perfect. | polished every flat surface five times a day for 
fifteen minutes at a time. My husband wasn't there, he was 
"working" with the rest of his friends at that office. He didn't give a 
shit. He didn't love me. He wouldn't have left if he loved me. 


Fuck him. | don't need him. | have my home. 


| looked it up once, aversion therapy. That what this was. | thought it 
was a curse at first, but really, it was a cure. | had everything | 
thought | wanted, including the "perfect" little house with all the neat 
little lines everywhere. | thought everything was just how | wanted it, 
but it put me in hell. | sweated and cursed and prayed and cried and 
bled to keep everything right where it was supposed to be. Right 
where | thought it should go. Well, | don't know if you've read your 
Bible, but something you ought to know: you aren't in control. God 
wills it and you accept it. He says "jump" and you say "how high".