He trudged through the snow to the Site-3034 central building, in a 
hundred-meter journey that felt like it took hours. As soon as he 
opened the door, a foul smell of vomit and urine hit his nostrils, and 
surveying the room, he knew why nobody had replied. The furniture 
and equipment lay strewn across the floor, shattered into wood 
splinters and broken electronics. Something was wrong with the 
lights, too, with only a single flickering bulb illuminating the 
wreckage. His eyes darted across the room, and the breath caught 
in his throat as he saw the bodies strewn across the floor. As he 
took a step forward, he felt the crunch of broken glass beneath his 
feet. Anderson gave the nearest still form a tentative poke. With no 
response, he rolled the man with the callsign Bravo Two over onto 
his back. 


“Vaslov! Agent Vaslov, can you hear me? Are you okay?” 
Agent Vaslov let out a small groan. Blood trickled from his forehead. 
“Couldn't... control...” 


“Vaslov, speak to me! Misha!” 


“... Anderson? I’m sorry... we should have... should have told...” 


Vaslov spluttered, groaned again and lapsed back into 
unconsciousness. Anderson cursed under his breath. What the hell 
happened here? At least he’s alive. 


A series of electronic tones interrupted his thoughts. 
Oh, no, no, no. 

Bectu, said the girl's voice. Two hundred. 

Not now. Please, God, not now. 


CTO ACBAHOCTO AeBATb. CTO ACBAHOCTO BOCEMb. CTO AEBAHOCTO 
cemb. One hundred and ninety-nine. One hundred and ninety-eight. 
One hundred and ninety-seven. 


Anderson ran to the middle of the room, where the radio equipment 
was. His heart sank as he saw the smoke and sparks coming out of 
the set. What the hell did they do to the radio? This can’t be a 
coincidence. 


He began pushing buttons and fiddling with dials. 


“BCe XOPOLUO. BCe XOpPOLUO,” he repeated, his voice cracking with 
desperation. 


CTO TOUAYaTb OAUH. CTO TPVAaTb. CTO ABAaAWaTb DEBATb. One 
hundred and thirty-one. One hundred and thirty. One hundred and 
twenty-nine. 


Oh God, oh god. “sce xopowo!” he yelled into the microphone. 


“Bce xOpoluo?” a voice replied. Anderson jumped, and spun round to 
see the body of Dr Walter lurching towards him, swaying from side 
to side, arms outstretched. 


“Jesus, Walter! What the hell is going on? How do we transmit the 
kill code? Where is the backup system?” 


“Bce xopowo?” said Dr Walter, as he shambled towards him. 


SCP-824: Active Weed Control 


Item #: SCP-824 
Object Class: Euclid-alterier 


Special Containment Procedures: Eighteen specimens of 
SCP-824 and two specimens of SCP-824-1 are to be kept ata 
dedicated greenhouse at Site 41. No other plants are to be planted 
in this greenhouse. Fifty kilograms of dead plant matter are to be 
provided to each specimen weekly. 


Research Site 824 has been established on Island, Japan, 
with the intent of studying the interaction between residents and 
SCP-824-1, along with the culture and history of the island in 
general. The Foundation has absorbed the local government's 
disinformation and counterintelligence activities in lieu of full-scale 
removal of SCP-824-1 from the island. This is intended to minimize 
the Foundation's impact on the civilian population of the island. 


Description: SCP-824 is a species of tree that is characterized by 
significant mobility and herbivory. While SCP-824 specimens 
superficially resemble members of the Ginkgoaceae family, 
SCP-824 is radically different from any known species of plant. 


Each SCP-824 specimen is capable of bending its trunk, roots, and 
branches at any point along their length at a rate of no more than 
360° per hour, averaging 30° per hour. Sections of SCP-824 remain 
rigid while moving, and specimens are as difficult to bend as typical 
trees. 


SCP-824's branches will move at random (primarily at ground level) 
until they come into contact with living or recently dead plant matter. 
Should this occur, nearby branches and roots of SCP-824 will wrap 
tightly around the plant matter in question, then retract in an attempt 
to strip it from the main body or pull the plant in its entirety to 
SCP-824 at a rate of roughly 0.5 meters per hour. In this process, 


“God damn you, Walter, the kill code! Bce xopowio! All is well! Bce 
XOpoluo!” 


AIBAHOCTO NATb. ACBAHOCTO YeTbIPe. AEBAHOCTO Tp. Ninety-five. 
Ninety-four. Ninety-three. 


“Bce xopowo. All is well. All is well. All is well,” Walter slurred, 
comprehension beginning to dawn on his dulled features. “All is 
well!” he laughed, wild eyes flashing. 


“All is well!” 
“All is well!” 
“All is well!” 


Anderson looked around the room in terror, as the prone forms on 
the ground stirred to life, turning to stare at him, repeating the 
phrase in unison. 


“All is well!” the others shouted, their voices building to a crescendo 
of demented laughter. They began to advance upon him, shuffling 
and swaying. 


“Get - get back!” screamed Anderson, his hand fumbling for his 
sidearm, finding nothing at his hip. Why did | leave the gun in the 
barracks? “Get away from me!” 


Tpuvglatb. ABagsWatTb AeBATb. ABaAWaTb BocemMb. Thirty. Twenty- 
nine. Twenty-eight. 


The broadcast was now loud enough for Anderson to make out the 
screaming in the background, building to a fever pitch. 


“This is Anderson at Site-3034!” he yelled into his receiver. “We 
have a Level 1 emergency! 3034 containment protocols have failed. 
| repeat, Site-3034 has a full containment failure!” 


Only the crackle of static was his reply. He let out a strangled sob 
and threw the radio to the ground, where it shattered, its remains 
mixing amongst the rest of the debris. The voices were getting 
louder and louder — the shouting of his colleagues and the girl’s 


radio broadcast mingling in a cacophony of noise. He put his hands 
over his ears, and sank to the floor, watching the others continue 
their march towards him. This is it. ls 3034 an XK object? I'll be the 
first to find out. 


Tpu. Apa. Ogun. Three. Two. One. 


He heard the muffled sound of far-off gunfire and explosions, 
drowned out by a colossal, booming roar, shaking the foundations of 
the building. 


C HOBbIM FOAOM. 


Before Dr Anderson fainted, he felt Dr Walter's arms close around 
him, and smelt the stench of alcohol on his breath. 


“HAPPY NEW YEAR, COMRADE!” 


Coyotl 


Incident Report 2547-55: SCP-2547 manifested in the 
town of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin, during August 2015, 
despite meeting none of the criteria for typical 
manifestation. As Sloth's Pit is both a Nexus 
(Designation Nx-0018) and home to Foundation Site 87, 
this posed an extreme risk to the well-being of all 847 
personnel stationed in and around the town, as well as 
the civilian population of 20,581. 


Unexpectedly, SCP-2547-1 did not begin its sermons in 
any house of worship! following its arrival on August 
15th, and instead went into the woods to the north of 
town. 


The Goatman scowled as it looked down at the coyote sitting on its 
haunches, clad in a leather coat. In his hooved hands, the Goatman 
held an axe, the blade branded with the head of some satanic 
caprine deity; just one of the newer parts of his legend. He spat on 
the ground. "You know you aren't welcome here." 


"I'm well aware." The coyote ran up onto a log next to the Goatman. 
"But you can't exactly stop me, now, can you?" 


"| can't," the Goatman scowled. "But the... people in that place." He 
nodded towards town, towards the hill overlooking it where a 
building that claimed to be called S & C Plastics was located. "They 
can deal with you." 


Coyote laughed. "They'd be dying of laughter before they got me 

into a cage. Even like this, weak though | am, | am still a god." He 
leaped into the air, and spiraled upward, into the canopy, floating 

freely. "You're a... what's the name for it? Spooky spaghetti?" 


The Goatman's hand wrapped around his axe's handle tighter, and 


his hourglass eyes narrowed into slits. "One: don't ever compare me 
to creepypastas. Internet horror authors are the scum of the Earth. 
Two: This is my territory. Last | checked, you were in the south-west. 
What do you want here, Coyote?" 


"Oh, you know. | just thought | would visit my favorite urban 
legends." He perched on a tree- not a branch, but on the side of the 
bark- his crucifix threatening to fall off as it looked down at the 
Goatman. "See the sights, do a little dance, make a little love—" 


The Goatman gagged. "You do realize that is illegal in Wisconsin?" 


"It's a song. The last time you heard music, it was the soundtrack to 
a Charlie Chaplin film." 


"...1 don't think Lady Gaga was around during that era." 
Coyote gave him an odd look. 


"This is our town. We know what you've been doing in the 
southwest, and it's sickening. All for the sake of your story being 
told?" The Goatman turned and began walking away. "Get out of 
Sloth's Pit. Or we'll make you leave." 


The world turned on its axis, and Coyote appeared in front of the 
Goatman, despite neither of them moving. "This is why nobody likes 
you, you know. Your whole lot of Legends." The canine's neck 
extended, and its its face pressed against the Goat's. "So concerned 
with an insignificant ten square miles. You're nothing but a bunch of 
backwater, backwoods, backward thoughtforms. If you were deleted 
tomorrow, every god in the world would laugh, and then forget that 
you existed." 


The Goatman tried to push him aside, only to find himself in the 
place of the Coyote, with the thing floating a few feet above the 
ground. The Legend just groaned, and put his hand against his face, 
tracing it up along his horns. "If our attitude keeps things like you 
away, so be it." He frowned and crossed his arms. "Besides, some 
of us have stories that haven't been told in over a decade, and we're 
relatively healthy. Why do you need to resort to this... debauchery?" 


Coyote came floating down, and sighed. With a sneeze, its coat flew 
off, and underneath, it revealed its true self. 


Its fur was gone, and underneath, there was nothing but an exposed 
ribcage and rotting organs within. Up to the ankles of his forelegs, 
the fur was matted, emaciated, decaying. And without the coat 
distracting from the face, one could see the sunken-in eyes, one 
blinded by some unknown force. With a cough, the coat reasserted 
itself onto Coyote's being. 


"As it turns out," the canine said, "If you suppress the culture and 
mythology of an entire group of civilizations for five-hundred or so 
years, it doesn't turn out too healthy for the myths of that 
civilization." Coyote laughed at something that would never be 
funny. "If you think this is bad, you should see what the skinwalkers 
have to do. Hide in totem poles... heh." 


"Holy crow." The Goatman approached Coyote, and crouched 
before him. "How did you get that bad?" 


"Not even / know that. My stories have been told less frequently, 
but... this is something else." Coyote laughed, the crucifix on its 
neck bouncing. "I don't want your pity. | need your help." 


"...how do | know this isn't one of your tricks?" The Goatman stood 
back up. "For all | Know, you're just doing this to get back at the 
things on the hill." He looked back towards S & C Plastics. 


"You don't. Please." 


Thinking for a moment, the caprine being replied, "Very well. 
However: whatever help you need will not come in the form of fatal 
sacrifices or acts. That includes what you do with those in town." 


"The people of Sloth Spit-"(The Goatman twitched at this 
appellation) "will remain unharmed." 


"Very well." A hand with hard, hoof-like fingernails beckoned them 
further into the woods. "Come." 


"Where are we going?" Coyote padded after him. 


"The library. Not The Library, but... well, you'll see." 


Excerpt of a missive of unknown origin to unknown 
recpient, found on the 9009th floor of the Library, in 
a section on metaknowledge. 


There are many lesser places of knowledge in the world, 
oh best beloved. While we hold all things known and 
unknown, some on individual planes and planets have 
amassed notable collections of their own. Alexandria 
was one of the most well-known, before fire took it; 
beyond that, there is the woman who sells black books 
under Waterloo bridge, the Pnakotic Collection located in 
the under-earth, and, least-known of these, the former 
library of Jackson Sloth. 


Though it was a ruin, a mere ghost of what it once was, the library of 
Jackson Sloth remained. 


The Pit opened up under Jackson Sloth's manor on Christmas 1890 
for reasons that, to this day, nobody knew. While the pit itself was 
seemingly bottomless, there were, for lack of a better word, catches 
on the side of the pit that held parts of the former manor; the largest 
had managed to catch most of the library. 


When it had stood in its former glory, the shelves were lined with 
books on every imaginable subject, from every genre. Sloth was an 
obsessive man when it came to stories, and some of his own novels 
were on the shelves, long-since forgotten in the face of other 
authors, out of print since the 1930s. 


The Goatman led Coyote into the library, a lantern attached to the 
head of his axe for light. He looked into the dereliction, the wrecked 
shelves, the volumes of literature that none would ever read... but 
all of whom were perfectly preserved. 


"Sloth was meticulous about his collection," the Goatman explained, 
picking up a replica folio of Marlowe and placing it back onto a shelf 
where it had fallen off. "He had each page treated individually to 


preserve them. These books will last for another three-hundred 
years, at least." 


"No humans have found this place?" 


"Some have tried. They usually find the entrance and assume that 
it's a hodag hole and avoid it completely. One even made it down 
here." He picked up a piece of cloth from one of the shelves. It was 
part of a sleeve, with an insignia of two circles, and three arrows 
pointing inward, with a name stitched underneath. "We're not sure 
what happened to them, if they were a him or a her. We just have 


the name 'Weiss'." He placed the cloth back down. 
Coyote sniffed at the cloth. "Smells like the 80's." 


"As | said, we don't know what became of them." The Goatman 
raised his lantern up to a shelf. "Sloth was by no means well- 
traveled, but he was well-read. He has some writings about you." He 
picked up a musty book off the shelf, and wiped some mud off of it; 
the rainfall had dampened the cover, but no other harm had come to 
it. "This was intended as a work to preserve myths like yourself." 


He showed Coyote the title. 
Dying Myths of the Western World 


Jackson Sloth, 1882 


"Sloth sounds like a cheery gentleman." 


"Cheerier than you think." The Goatman leafed through the pages 
until he came upon the section about Coyote. "This chapter mainly 
pertains to myths of the South-west." 


"And how is this meant to help? A book about myself dying?" 


"To the contrary, it's meant to revive them. It's... somewhat of a fail- 
safe. Sloth had it in his will that his manuscripts should be published, 
if found, but... well, his manor went with him, down there." He 
looked off the ledge and into the pit. "| have a friend who's good with 
computers. She can convert this into an e-Book in about a day." 


"Bah!" Coyote spat on the ground. "It won't work. There's an entire 
album of music about me disseminated out there, and | still look like 
| got run over by Lewis and Clark in a conceptual Hummer." 


"Stories are imperfect," the Goatman admitted, crouching by Coyote. 
"The more interpretive they get, the less they have a positive effect 
on the subject— in this case, yourself. Your image, your concept is 
spread around, but you, yourself, your being... that's trickier." 


"How am | meant to be revived, then?"