This great night is all about treats and tricks 
So | thought I'd spook you all for kicks!" 


Site Director's Note: It pains me to say 

We were just tricked in a cruel sort of way 
Somehow a researcher thought it'd be great 
To frighten us all to a panicked state 

But I'm not upset, because as it were 

Now the fool's working with all things Keter! 


Addendum 661-2: Test Log 

Test 661-0: D-606955 exposed to recording of advertisement for 
brand food processor voiced by SCP-661. 

Result: Despite having had no previous interest in cookery, 

D-606955 expressed a desire to purchase the food processor. When 

asked why, he claimed it seemed like a good deal, and might make 

a good present for his mother. 


Test 661-1: Subject politely asked to demonstrate powers of 
persuasion. 

Result: Subject claimed to have no knowledge of stated powers and 
asked for his lawyer. 


Test 661-2: Subject ordered to demonstrate powers. 

Result: Subject refused and again claimed ignorance of powers. 
When further pressed he told researcher "You want to not hold me 
here, you want to not experiment on me." The researcher then 
requested cessation of the test and suggested the release of 
SCP-661. He was subsequently reassigned. 


Test 661-3: D-965215 introduced into SCP-661’s cell. D-965215 has 
a history of violent crime, and was told to get SCP-661 to 
demonstrate his power by any means necessary. 

Result: Following an exchange described by researchers as 
abrasive, D-965215 assaulted SCP-661. SCP-661 stated “You want 
to not hurt me”. D-965215 immediately ceased attack and was 
removed from the cell. 


Test 661-4: D-161709 ordered to attack SCP-661 or face 
termination. 

Result: Upon commencement of attack by D-161709, SCP-661 
stated "You want not to hurt me". D-161709 continued attack. Video 
and audio logs indicate that D-161709 was exhibiting extreme 
stress, and repeatedly apologised to SCP-661 while expressing a 
desire not to be terminated. SCP-661 then stated "You want to die", 
at which point D-161709 ceased his assault and attempted to 
escape the cell by attacking the guard at the door; he was 
subsequently terminated. 


Test 661-5: D-313217 ordered to attack SCP-661 or face 
termination. D-313217 is unable to speak or understand English. 


Costume Change 


| love Halloween. It's my favorite time of year, one of the few days | 
can just go out and mingle with the normal people for an entire night 
without anyone being the wiser. The pain's not so bad when | can 
change so often, it's dark with plenty of places to hide and change in 
secret, and the candy makes up for it. 


There's an astronaut over there. | think I'll be an astronaut too now. 


It's So easy, not at all like having to make up a shape and hold on to 
it, Keeping it in my head and on my body until it hurts too much to 
bear. There's so many other people in costumes, | can just copy one 
of them and then | only need to keep the picture outside from 
changing. 


That little boy is a pirate. | like pirates, I'm going to be a pirate. 


Oh, and the candy. | do so love candy, but the rest of the year, it's 
so hard to get. You need money to buy candy, and even if | could 
get money, | can't keep it, | always drop it when | change. So | have 
to steal it, and that's even harder, because even if | get some, | have 
to drop it too when | change to get away. 


A ballerina? That could make a nice shape to be, I'll try that. 


Tonight, you don't have to buy or steal candy, they just give it away. 
They don't like to give you candy more than once, but that's not a 
problem for me, not if | see someone | want to be and get to a house 
before they do. | can clean out a house in minutes if I'm lucky, and 
have a whole bag of candy to go hide somewhere and eat it all up 
without any shape at all. 


Policemen are scary. | don't like them, they like to chase me and 
shoot at me. But my head hurts, so I'll be a policeman now. 


| took a chance once, and went up to a house without a shape. | 


don't know why | did it, maybe I'd eaten too much candy and gotten 
silly on the sugar. It never goes right most days, people always 
scream and run when they see me without a shape, or they try to 
hurt me and | have to run. But on Halloween, I'm a ghost, or 
Rorschach (who's Rorschach?), or a swamp monster, or a Shoggoth 
(don't know what that is either). They aren't scared, they tell me 
what a great costume | have and give me extra candy. 


Should | be a vampire? Or a werewolf? Or a mummy? | see all of 
them, and | can't decide. 


But | can't be myself very often, because | know Mr. Redd is after 
me. He's always been chasing me, but he can't ever find me. | know 
how much it makes him angry, though - every since that one night, 
he knows | spend all of Halloween out and vulnerable, but | wear so 
many different shapes he never knows what | am and I'm always 
picking a new one. He get so angry, and it's funny. 


Ooh, there's a spy. | see them a lot, even when it's not Halloween. 
They don't look like spies, they look like normal people, but no one's 
better than me at seeing someone whose outside is changed. | 
know they're all friends, because inside they all look similar, and | 
can see that too. I'll be a spy, and go talk to him. Maybe | can get 
him to think I'm a spy like he is too. Maybe he'll give me candy. 


Ghost Stories 


The sun was just beginning to set as | paddled into the Okefenokee 
swamp along with my friends, Hank and Lucia. We weren't strangers 
to kayaking in the swamp; we had all done it since we were kids. 
Even at night, we weren't afraid to go in with the alligators and the 
birds and the other wildlife. This trip in particular, however, was 
designed to be scary. What a better time to tell ghost stories than 
while camping in the swamp on Halloween? We'd never spent 
Halloween in the wilderness before, and we figured it would be 
better than going to another costume party. | love being able to get 
away from my job at the Foundation every once in a while. The cold, 
sterile halls of Site 327 have no soul, none of the romantic power 
that nature does. As much as | love science, | need that kind of 
spiritual peace that nature imparts. 


Things started to get dark around 6. 


"Lights on everyone," said Lucia, as if we were kids that needed her 
to order us around. Hank looked at her and pouted. 


"But | don't wanna!" he whined. 


"Come on Hank," | said, "we better do what she says, or she'll spank 
us." 


The look on her face was enough to send us both into a fit of 
laughter. 


"Shut up Joe," she said. "I don't know which one of you is worse." 


We kept mosily silent after that, paddling our way to our campsite. 
We'd been there many times before, an island of solid earth in a sea 
of stagnant water, peat, and trees. Spanish moss waved lazily in the 
wind as true darkness finally came, obscuring the already alien 
shapes of the Okefenokee. Here was true wilderness. No humans 
came here frequently, and when they did they never stayed long. 


The trees grew large and twisted, silent surveyors of the affairs of 
fish and fowl, alligators and snakes. We tied up the kayaks, set up 
our tents quickly, stowed our gear, and built a fire. As we cooked 
marshmallows and hotdogs, now came the reason we had come out 
here in the first place, our first-ever Halloween swamp ghost story 
contest. Hank took the first turn. 


A few miles south of Folkston, back in the 1800s, there used to be a 
place called Trader's Hill. It was a traders' town, of course, built near 
the water. There's an enormous old oak tree there, still around 
today. People called it the Hangman's Oak, for reasons I'm sure you 
can imagine. So one day, this Indian named Suanee came to town. 
He got accused to stealing some goods from a trader, and he ended 
up being sentenced to death. So they brought him up to the 
Hangman's Oak, and they were tying the rope around his neck when 
he said "May the curse of my father's spirit and my own be upon 
you, for as long as there is a Trader's Hill!" No one payed him any 
mind, and they hanged him dead. 


About a month later, the people of Trader Hill were having a dance 
to celebrate the harvest, when they saw something bright in the 
distance. They all looked toward it and saw Hangman's Tree, 
glowing bright like it was on fire, and they could hear wailing and 
moaning like a thousand people being tortured! The next morning 
the first group of people packed up and left Trader's Hill. Eventually, 
the whole place was deserted. They say that sometimes, at night in 
the fall, you can still hear the wailing of Suanee and his father. 


"Hank, I'm sorry but that story was just awful,” | said, "It wasn't 
scary, and I'm pretty sure I've heard it before somewhere." 
"What!? That story scared the shit out of me when | was a kid!" 
"Nope. Wasn't scary." 

"| agree. Boooring." said Lucia. 


Hank stared at us both, flabbergasted. Before he could say 
anything, | saw it. There was a light in the swamp, like an orange 


flame. It was far off, and obscured by the fog, but | could see that it 
was bobbing along like someone carrying a lantern. Who would be 
out in the swamp at night? And how do you just causally walk 
through the swamp? 


"Hey guys, do you see that?" | asked. 

"See what?" 

Almost as soon as they turned, the light disappeared. 
"What was that?" said Hank. 


"| don't know. Maybe it was just someone setting up their own 
campsite?" suggested Lucia. 


"I guess..." | said. | was used to seeing weird things. Something 
about this didn't seem right. Still, it's my weekend off. 


"Whatever, let's just keep going. | believe it's my turn," | said as | 
stood up. 


One day, aman named Henry Ferguson was driving home from 
work. It was another busy day in Chicago, with lots of traffic on the 
highway as people made their way home. Henry was tired, he had 
been working late the past couple of nights. He couldn't wait to get 
home and relax. Suddenly, his phone rang. He answered it. 


"Good afternoon Mr. Ferguson. | have your son here at gunpoint. 
You must make a choice now." 


"What? Who is this?" 

"That's not important. | can see you from a screen right now. Speed 
up, and turn into oncoming traffic. If you don't do it soon, | will kill 
your son." 


"Dad! Please, don't do it!" 


"George? Is that you?!" 


"Yes Dad, it's me, don't worry about me I'll be fine!" 
"Shut up! Mr. Ferguson, you're running out of time." 


Henry heard a gun click. His heart was beating out of his chest. He 
didn't know what to do. 


"George.....! love you." 
He stomped on the accelerator and turned sharply to the left. 


Mr. Henry Ferguson didn't survive the crash. When the police asked 
for a recording of the last phone call he had made before committing 
suicide, they got it. To this day, no one knows who actually made 
the call, where it came from, or how George's voice was on it when 
he had never been kidnapped or threatened with a gun at all.... 


| stood silent for a few moments while | let the last part set in. Hank 
and Lucia looked a little spooked now. I'm sure the Foundation 
wouldn't mind that | had made up a ghost story using an SCP for 
inspiration, but then they probably would never know. 


"Dude, that's fucking creepy.” said Hank. 


"That was one of the better ones I've heard recently," agreed Lucia. 
"However, | think I've got both of you beat. Have a seat and listen to 
a true master of the art.” 


Long ago in England, there lived a man named Jack. Jack was a 
thief and a scoundrel, but a clever one. One day, for all his 
cleverness and carefulness, he got caught stealing a gold coin from 
a farmer. Half the village was chasing him with murder on their 
minds, for that coin was all they had. Jack jumped into some bushes 
on the side of the road and let the villagers pass by, then dusted 
himself off and started walking the other way. He hadn't gone more 
than a few steps when a dark figure stepped onto the path before 
him, appearing like a wraith from the fog. 


"Jack," the figure said, "| have come for thee. You hath lived a 
wicked life, and it is my duty as Satan, Lord of the Hell to take your 


soul to eternal damnation. Your time hath come, the villagers shall 
return and kill you soon." 


Jack, being the clever man he was, thought this over and had an 
idea. "Devil," he said, "would you not prefer to have many souls over 
one?" 


"Are you proposing a deal, Jack?" the Devil said. 


"A small one, Devil. It would benefit you much more than me. It is 
simple, you shall see." 


"Tell me more, but be sharp, for your time runs short." 


"Well first, Devil, | but throw away this gold coin | stole, into the 
forest where the peasants will never find it. Then you, Devil, turn 
thineself into the same gold coin. You hop into my purse, and when 
the peasants find me | give you to them. They don't kill me, but you 
disappear from their pockets later, and soon enough they'll all kill 
eachother arguing over who stole it." 


The Devil agreed, and did as Jack said. But when he turned into a 
coin and hopped in Jack's purse, he found in there a crucifix. At the 
sight of it, the Devil's power was diminished, and he could not move 
from Jack's purse. 


"A curse on you, Jack! You damnable wretch!" 
"| will let you go if you do as | say." 
"Blasted fate! | submit. What do you wish?" 


"| wish that you promise you will never drag me to Hell, never touch 
my soul, not ever." 


The Devil was reluctant, but as the peasants drew near, he finally 
gave in to Jack's demand. Jack threw him from his purse, and the 
Devil fled into the dark forests. 


Finally, the farmers had Jack where they wanted him. They 
snatched him and bound him, and searched him for their gold. But 
they did not find it, for Jack had thrown it into the woods. Instead, 


they took his head. 


Jack was now in a predicament, for it seemed that Heaven would 
not take him, on account of his wicked nature, but neither would 
Hell, for the Devil had made his promise. Trapped between worlds, 
Jack begged of the Devil for one thing. A light for him to see by as 
he wandered the Earth. Satan took pity on Jack, and gave him an 
ember from the fires of Hell itself. Jack took it, and placed it ina 
carved pumpkin that he now wears in place of the head he lost. 
Since, he became known as Jack 'o' The Lantern. 


| yawned. | saw worse things on an average Tuesday. 


"Eh," said Hank, "it was interesting, but not really scary. Kind of 
cheesy too. Pumpkin heads are so overdone." 


"What are you smoking? A guy with a pumpkin for a head with fire 
from Hell itself wandering the Earth for all eternity doesn't scare 
you?" 


"No." 
"You're too jaded." 


A voice came from just outside the light of the fire. "Oh, it's a good 
story. You just got a few of the details wrong." 


We all turned, startled, toward the voice as a man stepped into the 
light of our fire. He was old, his skin wrinkled with age. Half his hair 
had fallen out, the rest was grey as brushed steel. His eyes gleamed 
in the firelight, obscuring their color. He wore swamper's clothes, 
overalls and boots, but he seemed dirtier than most swampers | had 
seen. 


"Who are you?" | asked him. 


"They call me Will." He turned toward Lucia. "If you had told that 
story right, it would have been much scarier." 


"You were spying on us?" 


"Only for as long as her story lasted. | was just on my way in my 
canoe when | heard your voices." 


Lucia stood up. "Well if you Know that story so well, what did | get 
wrong?" 


"Well, for one thing,” said Will, "Jack never lost his head. The 
villagers just hanged him. He pretended to be dead and then just got 
up and left as soon as they turned around." 


"For another, Jack didn't use a pumpkin to hold his Hellfire. There 
weren't any pumpkins in Medieval Europe, they're an American 
vegetable. He used a carved turnip."