“We can't leave here. It's too strong. |, and by extension, 
you, have seen what it does to people. Children starving 
in the streets. Strangers walking off bridges, into 
machinery, in front of trains. Forgetting how to breathe. 
People running for shelter as the bombs fell. Our bombs, 
Lloyd. Whatever happened, we tried to stop it. We 
failed.” 


His head is pounding harder now, with his heart-rate increasing to 
match. He takes a couple of deep lungfuls of air. He attempts to sit 
up, wincing involuntarily as he leans on his cast. The note lies on the 
ground, tantalisingly mysterious. A circle. A shortening alphabet. 
Something that kills people. The Foundation's biggest failure. 


Suddenly, it clicks. Not the clearest diagram, but he was working 
with a broken arm. Depth is hard to convey when you're writing in 
whiteboard marker. A three. Exponentiated. Two, squared; three, 
cubed. A circle cubed. A sphere. And a line. Not a sphere. “It's 
something you can't remember. And it's not a sphere.” He laughs, 
despite himself. Fewer than 16 letters of the alphabet. He can't even 
recall something as simple as that. It's stronger than we ever would 
have believed. He looks at his watch again, properly this time. He 
can just make out the numbers, beneath a white haze of 


disinformation. The woman was probably his wife. Once. It's 
spreading. It's not observing, it's destroying. The pills are almost 
used up. He'll only have to go through this a couple more times at 
the most. He spasms again. He took far too much to be healthy. And 
it still made him forget. We never stood a chance. Should he have 
left more mnestics for when he wakes up? It doesn't, he reasons, 
make much of a difference at this point. 


Samuel Lloyd closes his eyes, silently laughing at the futility of it all. 
When he next opens them, there's nothing left to laugh at. 


The World Within 


The world was swimming. Colors- vibrant, piercing colors were 
everywhere. 


"D-3975.” 

There was no up, no down. No left or right. 
“D-3975.” 

Spinning, swirling, tumbling, floati- 
“D-3975!” 


Dug’s eyes flew open. He was on his back, face up, in a dark room. 
He sniffed the air as his eyes adjusted. It smelled like... 


Paint? 
Where was he? He remembered...goggles, then nothing. 
“D-3975! Can you hear me? Where is the group?” 


Dug bolted upright. The group. His friends. Jared, Cray, Nathan, 
Felix. All holding on to one another, slowly removing the goggles to 
see the painting. The impeding calm, the slow drain of energy as he 
lost his color- and then 


everythingwaswrongnothingwaswhere'tshouldbeandtheworldwasturn 
“|...don’t know, Doc.” Dug stood. “They’re gone.” He glanced over 

his left shoulder. A leather recliner was in the corner, looking a bit 

worn. 


“What do you see in there, D-3975?” 


“Not much, Doc,” Dug responded. “There’s a leather chair and...a 


cabinet? And a rug.” 

“Nothing else?” 

No 

“There’s a little girl.” 

What? 

“She says her name is Tanya.” 


Dug wondered why he had said that. He hadn’t meant to. 
Eventually, the doctor spoke: 


“Tanny..? No, it can’t be- we’ve never seen more than one person in 
the painting before. We do not see Tan- this girl. We don’t see your 
group.” 


“I! don’t either.” 
“Search for them.” 


Dug approached the recliner and laid a hand on it. It felt smooth and 
slick, exactly as leather should. He moved on. 


He moved to the only windows in the entire room. Big, wide, glorious 
windows, open to the outside world, except 


No"e of the world was the waY 't Should be and nothing 
mate any sense and nothing was where it belonged and 
the wold was tyrnin9 4nd 


Dug looked back at his hands and saw brown, dark brown- /eather 
brown- smeared on them, and he looked at the recliner and he saw 
the color of his skin on the chair and- 

I’ve found them, Doc 


“They’re not here, Doc. But the girl still is.” 


There is no girl 


“You can’t find your group?” 

They're outside 

“The girl wants me to tell you something.” 

“Can you or can you not find your group, D-3975?” 


Dug looked out the window again, struggling against his own mind to 
form the words. To tell the Doctor how his friend Le""Y’s face was 
smeared into the bark on the beautiful tree, or how the luscious 
branches were Te;'y’s arms, knurled and twisted, or how the 
endlessly gorgeous sky was brilliantly filled with the pained 
expressions of his group, ingeniously contorted and morphed to fill 


the canvas. 


“She says that she misses you, Daddy.” 


“What?” 
Who said that? Was that me? 


“She says she misses her Daddy, and she wants her Daddy to come 
in here.” 


Whatishappening 

“...Tanny...?” 

“It’s been 2 years, Daddy, why haven’t you come home?” 
“Oh, Tanny, I’m so sorry, Daddy misses you, my little girl...” 


Dug felt his mouth moving, his lips forming words, but he wasn’t 
doing it. He willed his body to stop, to listen to his command, and, oh 


God, whose voice was coming out of his mouth? 


“| miss breakfast on Sunday, Daddy, | miss when you cooked for us! 
For Mommy and me!” 


Dug heard the doctor begin to cry. 


*Tanya, my sweet Tanya, I’m so sorry...| did everything | could...but 


| didn’t- didn’t even see the car, baby, it came out of nowhere- you 
and your mother, oh God...“ 


Dug gritted his teeth and willed his body to fight back, but- 


“I’m still alive, Daddy, in here! Come in here with me, we can make 
Sunday breakfast again! Mommy and me and you!” 


Why am | saying this what is happening make it stop 

THUD 

“Sir, your goggles!” 

“Hold on Tanny!” 

no 

“Daddy?” 

NO 

“Tanny, I’m coming!” 

NO 
+ Show Addendum 3864/3 
Test Log 1 - 10/29/2017 


Procedure: A group of 5 D-Class personnel! 
were given direct visual exposure of SCP-3864 
at the same time. 


Outcome: D-3975 was the only subject to 
appear as SCP-3864-1. Communication with 
SCP-3864-1 was continuous for approximately 
6 minutes before it was able to convince Dr. 
[REDACTED] to remove his goggles. Dr. 
[REDACTED] remains the current SCP-3864-1 
instance at this time. 


Conclusion: SCP-3864 is able to loosely 


control or influence SCP-3864-1 to “lure” prey. 
Further testing pending O5 approval. 


Footnotes 
1. D-3971 through D-3975 


SCP-978 Extended Test Logs 


Testing Log 


Log Format 

Subject: 
Photographed Activity: 
Photo Result: 


Testing with Other SCPs 


Subject: SCP-014 
Photographed Activity: Sitting in his chair. 
Photo Result: No change. 


Subject: SCP-043 
Photographed Activity: Being questioned as it sits on a turntable. 
Photo Result: Being replaced into its sleeve. 


Subject: SCP-050 

Photographed Activity: Seated on Agent 's desk. 

Photo Result: A photo of what appears to be SCP-978, with a 
photo emerging from it. The photo is of what appears to be 
SCP-978, with a photo emerging from it, ad infinitum. Microscopic 
examination revealed that the regress continued for 12 levels before 
details became too small to make out. 


Subject: SCP-053 

Photographed Activity: Coloring in a coloring book. 

Photo Result: Riding on SCP-682's back in a pastoral setting; 
SCP-682 is wearing a bright red hair-bow and a floral dress similar 
to SCP-053's favored clothing, and has bright pink nail polish on its 
claws. Adult humans are present, but facial features are indistinct. 


Subject: SCP-063 
Photographed Activity: Hanging from its hookin Dr. —'s 


The Worm 


Summary of Evidence from 
Recovery Site V2008-5 


Day 14 
| think it is important to provide context, so future generations may 
recognize the urgency of my endeavor. 


In 1916, | enlisted into His Majesty's 5th Infantry Division, and in the 
bloody trenches of Europe | witnessed proof of humanity's 
barbarism and the absence of God. Wounded in battle and 
wallowing in septic mud, the fever fell upon me, and with it came the 
visions. 


In my nightmares | saw a great iron worm, with jaws like that of a 
dragon, devouring the fields of Europe. It had no teeth, but masses 
of grinding gears that tore flesh and stone to pulp. Its voice was the 
roar of falling artillery, its breath the blistering poison of mustard gas. 
Damned souls were belched into a starless sky like smoke, lost into 
a cold, indifferent void. 


| have no memory of my conscious actions during that time, but at 
last | found myself in a hospital in London. They told me the war was 
over, but the dreams did not leave. | would wake in a cold sweat, 
filled with purpose. Hastily | scribbled down designs that had been 
burned into my mind, strange and alien architectures | did not 
recognize or understand. 


Finally | returned home to my wife and children. Brave Simon and 
little Simone were a welcome escape from my fear, but my wife 
Clarice took notice. "Shellshock," she called it, the word on the lips 
of every veteran's wife or mother. | tried to explain my visions, what 
instilled such fear in me, but she recoiled as if | were a mere 


madman. If only that were the case. 


The children heeded my warnings, however. They were rightly 
afraid, yet that was not my intent. No, Simon, do not fear the beast. 
No Simone, please do not cry. 


Father will not let you be fed to the worm. 


The schematics! They must be the secret to stopping the worm. | 
feel a connection, a familiarity that likens them unto a great metal 
snare. 


With them | will cage the beast. 


Day 825 

So long, so long in my workshops. So long in the belly of my father's 
home, free from prying eyes. Working, ever building. My wife 
questions but refuses to listen. Only the children heed. Only Simon 
understands. A finer son no father could want. 


My family's wealth is modest, but the urgency that gives energy to 
my limbs also guides my thoughts. Through clever accounting | can 
take advantage of the working class' desperation. So many seek 
work, an honest day's wages, that they do not question my motives. 
Some even show curiosity, enthralled by my designs. A work 
Leonardo himself would envy, they say. We are more than employer 
and laborer, we are a growing congregation, seers who know the 
truth. 


With the enlightened to spur the others forward, we make excellent 
time. They build and forge, dig and reinforce, laying pipes and 
wrapping conductors in rubber. On the surface, they speak of a 
Great Depression, of economic and social despair. Below, | lay the 
foundation of a greater tomorrow. But | smell the burning breath of 
the worm. It is close. We must hurry. 


Day 2,398 

| have seen the puppet of the worm. A puffy Austrian who 
commands power from the desperate and in their despair they hurl 
themselves into the grinding teeth of the worm and call themselves 
masters of a thousand years. | see his face in the newspapers and 


scream at his empty, hateful eyes, but no one listens! No one SEES! 


The nightmares have changed. Now there are more than mere 
soldiers on an apostate battlefield, now there are prisons. Camps of 
men and women and children, their flesh shriveled by cruelty and 
neglect. The worm feeds on them, and their souls are so weak they 
cannot even flee into the heaven-less sky. 


| fear for them, but | fear for my own children even more. In my 
dreams, | hear them crying on the battlefield. They call out for god, 
for their mother, for their father. 


Only | can answer. 


Day 2,567 
Tonight. 


The vision came. | saw the worm, eating the rotten flesh of a dead 
world! The stars had burned out, the sun bled into blackness, until 
the only light was but a flickering candle, a torch held against 
oblivion. No Christian God holds that torch, no pagan worship, no 
politician or priest. 


! hold the torch. 


| stand within the snare, built of the iron of the earth and the blood of 
man, and | bait the worm to its doom! 


Day 2,568 
SUCCESS! THE WORM IS TRAPPED! 


Day 2,569 

My victory was short-sighted. The worm is caged but it has already 
unleashed its plague upon us. The bombs fall upon London. War 
rages once more. The worm cries out from below, mocking me even 
as it thrashes within its cage. This world is doomed. 


The work crews fear it, or maybe they fear me? Some want to leave, 
to fight another pointless war for their homeland. Others stand 
behind me, terrified of what comes for us. How... how..? How can 
we escape this rotting world and the locusts that devour it? 


Day 2,569 

| finally understand the purpose of my great machine. Not a cage. 
An engine. A device that dwarfs all measure of man's science, 
Satan's magic and God's miracles. A machine that will deliver us 
from oblivion! All it needed was a heart! A burning furnace to power 
it! How ironic, that the worm that promised my doom is now the 
engine that will drive our salvation! 


The laborers who heeded my warnings have banded with me. Like a 
cult to its messiah they gathered at my feet, and as a dutiful 
shepherd | will guide them to paradise. 


Some resisted. | do not hate them. 
| do not hate the people of this ruined world. 
| pity them. 


It was all | could do to instruct my followers that a merciful death is 
preferable to the alternative. Those who would not come with us 
were better off sent away by their kin than by some heartless enemy 
on the battlefield. 


| go to throw the switch of my great machine, and free ourselves 
from the madness of the grave. 


Day 2,570 Day 1 

In one brilliant flash, my engine and the manor above have been 
delivered from the war-torn earth to a new world. This place is like 
our own, but different in many ways. A gray mist swirls around the 
manor, free of the stink of gunpowder and urban decay. The manor 
sits in a field of grey soil devoid of vegetation. | hear no buzzing of 
insects. | see no sun or moon, just a dull, sourceless light. 


A dismal arrival, perhaps, but a welcome one. | broke wine with my 
brothers and sisters. Today we are saved. 


The engine has gone quiet now. The worm must have been 
consumed by its own fire. Some merciful part of my soul, so flushed 
with victory and new hope, prays the worm is at peace. 


Day 2 


Where on earth there would be day and night, here the light never 
changes. The gray mist lingers, muting all sound. My followers look 
to me for answers. They say | am the Voice of the engine, surely | 
must know what to do. | push for patience and make promises | 
already begin to doubt myself. To satisfy their curiosity, | asked 
three of my bravest to venture out in search of... anything. 


| try to reassure my family, but Clarice looks at me only with fear and 
hate. She has walled herself up in the bedrooms with Simone. 
Simon stays with me though. He wishes to go out to see this new 
world. | refuse him. | will not threaten his life for the sake of 
knowledge. 


Even as | write these words, | am startled by what | see. This world 
was to be our safe haven, was it not? 


Day 3 

The men | sent into the mist have returned, thanks to the lengths of 
string | provided them. No vegetation, no animals, no sun or stars, 
no civilization. This world is empty and grey. Not hell, like the world 
we left behind. A limbo. 


Does that make it better? 


Day 4 

The dreams no longer come. Where before | could scarcely close 
my eyes without envisioning arcane machinery and prophecies of 
doom, now my mind is empty, and the silence mocks me. The food 
stores are being rationed. | do everything | can to convince the 
followers that utopia will come, that this is just a transition, but empty 
stomachs speak with more conviction than a prophet without a 
prophecy. A nurse named Eudora seems to have taken it upon 
herself to stir the hearts of the following, but her sermons cut short 
as | approach, and she regards me with stony silence until | 
withdraw. 


Day 5 

My wife refuses to leave the bedrooms. She does not speak to me, 
ignores the food | leave for her. | call for Simone but they do not 
come out. How | have come to hate my wife. Her spite will not save 
us.