We met in Home Ec class. She was always so patient and caring. she 
still cares. TOOK a trip with me and several of my classmates over the 
summer to check out the new Space Mountain. We shared our first 
kiss during the fireworks display on the third night. |... made some 
dumb promises | knew | couldn't keep. . . there's still time. 


Doug Garner 


A total blast to have around. Always wanted me to tag along on his 
misadventures. He didn't want to be all alone. We got caught 


sneaking in to see Jaws; | managed to get away before the cops 
showed up, he wasn't so lucky. Never sold me out, either. and risk losing 
you? He always had my back. Don't let him down. 


Ben Ward 


Lived across the street from me our entire lives. He's been there the whole time. | 
could never ask for a better friend. and he, you. We began drifting apart 
once he started getting pretty deep into his schoolwork. He was scared of 
what you might think. Every once in awhile he'd stop by, just to chill. Because he 
missed you. Don't you miss him too? Last time we talked was when he treated me 
to Queen's show at the Paramount back in April. 


| fall backwards, reeling from a mix of vertigo from the height; light- 
headedness from the cigarette, and a sudden, splitting migraine. | 
press my palms into my eyes, trying to get my head straight. | can't 
even focus on myself now though. There's people down there. They 
need my help. Without even bothering to clean my evidence (I'll be 
back for it), | drop to the ladder and begin climbing down. 


It's a quiet ride on my bike up to the path that leads to the lake, and 
a crunchy one for the last mile or so. The only sound other than me 
plodding through the snow are the occasional gusts of wind 
screaming through the trees. No. Not the wind. 


Can you hear us? 


Can you hear us? 


Can you hear us? 


Danger: Drowning Hazard. Area is off limits. 


Little signs like this were posted everywhere. tts to keep you out. It's to keep the 
truth hidden. | disregard them, and trek on. | can't abandon my friends 
now. 


It's funny, even though the sun is coming up, it seems to be getting 
Colder. it's always cold. That's why they need you. 


Barbed wire. Fuck, that's right. How the hell am | supposed to get 
over this? over there. Wait a minute...that bush...aimost. Looks like there's 
a hole behind it, going right under the fence. piease. ON my hands and 
knees, | crawl through. 


| can see it now... 


Can you see them? 
Can you see them? 
Can you see us? 
Can you see them? 
They can see you. 


We 
can 
We can 
See 
See 
See 
You 


It's...dear God... 


Will you help us? 


Do you remember us? 


Do you remember me? 


Me? 


Us? 


How could you forget 


after everything? 


Don't you remember us? 


It's everyone | know. Every one of you. All my friends. My family. 
Still others | don't recall in full. You shouldn't be here. Why? How 
can this be? | have to get you out of here! | won't let this go on. 


The freezing water is around my ankles now. With each step | can 
feel the ground below getting further away...up to my thighs, and I'm 
already shivering. My heart begins to drop. Something is wrong. 


Help us, please. 


Only you. 


What about all those years? 


Was it all for nothing? 


You promised. 


Always looked out for you. 


We need you. 


Remember us? 


You promised! 


I'm slowly moving out towards them...| can help. It doesn't have to 
be this way. We can all make it out of here. 


Up to my chest. 


| can't shake the creeping dread from being in such deep water. 
When | was a child, an ill-advised cannonball sent me plummeting to 
the bottom of my uncle's pool. | freaked. | couldn't move. | flailed 
about in a panic, trying desperately to gain vertical ground to no 
avail. | thought | was going to die. Someone got down in time to fish 
me out, but ever since then, I've had a horrible phobia of water. In 
fact, I've never actually learned how to swim. 


It's all right. 


Setting: Fine 
Output: Small metal sculpture of a piano. 


Notes from Dr. Gears: |t appears there is a high level of 
randomness when SCP-914 "refines" an item. However, 
it seems to preserve some element of its original 
composition, in this example, clockworks. This is not a 
law, but a high probability. Refine a metal bar, and you're 
more likely to get a simple metal object than a internal 
combustion engine. Both, however, are possible. 


Name: Dr. Gears 

Date: / / 

Total number of objects: Three (3) copies of all 
documentation, photographs, and test logs accumulated 
in relation to SCP-914. 


Input: One (1) copy of SCP-914 documentation 
Setting: 1:1 

Output: Folder containing all previously entered 
documents, arranged in chronological order. 


Input: One (1) copy of SCP-914 documentation 
Setting: Fine 

Output: Hard-bound book containing 400 pages. No 
diagrams, photos, or other visual aids of any kind are 
included. The pages appear to be solid black, but 
microscopic examination shows each page to be 
covered in approximately twenty thousand characters. 
The text has no correlation with any known writing style, 
and is not in a linear format, with "sentences" 
constructed from individual characters spread out 
between many pages. Each sentence requires an 
exceedingly complex formula to decode, with each 
formula unique to each sentence. (Note: Current 
decoding work has resulted in two partially translated 
sentences after 225 work-hours. Item appears to be a 
record of the internal structure of SCP-914.) 


Input: One (1) copy of SCP-914 documentation 


It's all right. 


It's all right. 


There's always time. 


Don't turn back. 


Don't leave us here. 


Please. 


You promised. 


Up to my neck. 


It's too late now. | can't find the bottom, | can't gain a footing. I'm 
choking on the water, I'm starting to flail again. 


It's alright. 


We've waited so long. 


You won't turn your back on us. 


We could have been so much. 


Done so much. 


All gone. 


Wasted. 


In their arms now. 


| can see their faces. 


| recognize all of them. 


| Know all of them. 


We're finally together. 


They've been waiting for me for so long. 


How could | have forgotten? 


Forgotten? 


Why would they do that to us? 


How could they? 


They can't do that. 


They can't leave us here. 


You can't leave me here. 


Don't forget me. 


Not Just A Cat In A Labcoat 


Not To Disappear - 1 


Previous / Next 


1. 


In the dusty bedroom of her Georgetown apartment, Hannah Cho 
sits on the edge of her bed, mobile phone in hand, unable to believe 
the voice from the other end of the line. "Excuse... me?" 


"I'm sorry, we've checked already. There - there doesn't seem to be 
a mistake," wavers the receptionist. "Ma'am - | don't mean to be 
rude, but - are you sure you've dialled the right centre?" 


She double-checks the phone screen, checks against the number 
pinned to the fridge, checks against the handwritten note 
sandwiched inside her planner. "I know | have. What's going on?" 


"Ma'am, I'm checking our records now, just give me a minute to 
clear things up." 


She waits, impatiently tapping her fingers against the edge of the 
bedframe. Over the phone, there is the sound of tapping keys. Then 
the voice speaks again. "Huh. Okay." 


"What is it?" 


"There's never been a Beatrice Cho. The guestbook's got your 
name, ma'am, but your, uh, mother, never stayed here. As far as we 
know, the room you gave has been empty since last October." 


"This can't be real. What's going on? Is this some sort of joke?" 


"Believe me, Mrs. Cho, we are as puzzled as you are. Maybe we 
could-" 


She ends the call, not wanting to hear any more. Part of her- a 
rational, sensible, tired part - wants her to drive to the nursing home 
as soon as she can, in her nightgown and slippers if need be. But 
another part of her, growing more reasonable by the minute, makes 
her gently place the keys in her hand back into her purse. The 
growing knowledge - conviction, even - that Mother has inexplicably 
and entirely disappeared. 


She knows this because she woke up in the morning, rubbed her 
eyes, pulled back the curtains, and began to go to the shower when 
she noticed a curious change in the framed picture on her bedside 
table. It had always been there, a framed shot of her family on 
holiday, put there as a memento years ago, when she'd bought the 
apartment for herself. It was one of the first things Hannah had seen 
in the morning every day when she awoke, which was why she 
immediately noticed the marked lack of her mother in the frame. In 
her place, a patch of blank sky. 


It wasn't just the one framed photograph - a quick thumbing-through 
of her phone's photos told Hannah as much. And it wasn't just her 
image, either - curiously, even her name had been expunged, 
replaced by little more than blank space. 


And, presently, a quick call to the home confirms her suspicion that 
even the memory of Mother has ceased to exist. Overnight, Mother 
appears to have erased herself, purged from both the printed form 
and the mind. 


Several calls later, Hannah rubs her temples, takes up her phone, 
and dials a final number. It rings twice before it is picked up. 


"Hannah?" 

"Pa, | have - there's been a problem." 

"Of course there is. You'd never call otherwise." 
"It's about Mother." 


There is a pause, as the two voices regard each other. The silence 
rebounds between them, as radio waves off cell towers. 


"Your... mother?" Voice uncertain. The receptionist's was like this 
too, but steadier. 


"My mother. Your wife." 


"Mmm." A rustling sound - she imagines his weight shifting, resting 
his chin on his hand, perhaps, with the cordless telephone in his 
other. "After all this time you call, you ask about her." 


"I'm sorry, | never called earlier, there just - it just didn't come up." 
Not entirely the truth, but it will suffice. They've had nothing in 
common to talk about, regardless. "Something's happened to her, 
pa. This is serious." 


"Your... mother, huh?" 
"She's gone missing. All of her. Not just her, but her traces, too..." 


She can almost hear him wrinkle his eyebrows on the other end of 
the line. "That's an odd thing to say about - about - your mother." 


"You used to call her Beatrice - don't you remember her? Anything 
at all?" 


"Are you sure you're okay, girl? You sound... out of it. Like you just 
woke up from a dream." 


That settles it, then. "You know, | just might have. Sorry to have 
bothered you, pa." She's gone, really, truly gone, and I'm the only 
one left who remembers. 


Hannah bites her lip, and ends the call. 


Without knowing why, she takes out her journal again. It is a simple 
affair, red, bound in faux-leather, memos from clients and phone 
numbers and passwords both written on and sandwiched between 
the pages. And notes for Mother - groceries to buy, appointments to 
make, doctors and clinics and little, personal reminders, too. Like a 
negative-space portrait of the person that once was. Afterthoughts, 
errands for a phantom. 


Six months ago, Hannah Cho drove her mother to the nursing home 
for the very last time. 


Her mother's possessions were few. Clothing, shoes, and a bag of 
toiletries sit in a duffel bag in the rear seat. And the small bag of 
clay. It would be unthinkable for her mother to live without her art, 
even at her age. Especially at her age, when her faculties are so 
few, art might be all that she has left. 


The road there was smooth and familiar. They'd driven down it many 
times before, of course - but this time, she would return alone. Yet 
she felt nothing special, nothing different - nothing, in fact, to 
indicate that this would be a finality of any sort - and the Nissan 
rumbled down the road all the same. 


Mother had been silent, placidly regarding the buildings as they 
glided past. Jalan Kebun Bunga. Nattukkottai Temple. Was that a 
look of blank recognition on her face, or was it confusion? After all, 
while Mother had known of the move for weeks, months - Hannah 
had spent each and every day explaining it to her in as patient a 
tone as she could muster - did she know it now? Ridiculous 
question, she thought. Mother's forgetful, not stupid. But then what 
was this feeling, welling in the base of her stomach all morning? She 
couldn't quite gather the words for it, but it's like - like she's driving a 
dog to the pound. 


She chastised herself. Such thoughts, even at your age. The old 
Nissan rattled, as if in response. 


"Where are we going?" asked Mother suddenly, as if jolted from her 
daze. "Shopping, is it?” 


"No, mother. We're-" 
"-why are my things in the back? Where are we going?" 


"Mother, we're going to the home. The one you said you liked? With 
the nice rooms?" 


"Oh. That's nice." She fell silent. Then, after a while, "Am | coming 
back?" 


Hannah bit her lip. She considered saying, "No, not this time." Or 
"We discussed this already." Or even, "It's up to you, mother. If you 
don't feel like it right now, | understand. We can head back." 


Instead, what she said was: "Don't worry. It's just for a few weeks, to 
see if you like it, okay?" 


Mother didn't reply. This wasn't the first time Hannah had lied to her; 
in all likelinood, she would forget this, as she had done before. A 
white lie, a remedy to ease Mother's addled mind, if only until she 
forgot again. Objectively, she wasn't doing any wrong. But then why 
the feeling in her gut then? Like guilt with a hook through its chest. 


Illogical - she shouldn't be feeling that way. The move had been 
Mother's idea as much as her own. The pamphlets she read 
cautioned them against such a thing, that one should let the patient 
rest at home, in a familiar environment, surrounded by old sounds 
and old faces, to maintain the facade of the usual as far as possible. 
But Mother was never usual. She was always on the run, always on 
the edge. In her twilight years, she was bewildered by familiarity. 
The walls of her house terrified her. Perhaps she found herself 
confronted, surrounded by reminders of her past, a past that taunted 
her and jeered her in her aged, decrepit state. 


And so Mother had called her that night for the fifth time that week, 
almost sobbing into the receiver, "Hannah, Hannah - I'm lost, I'm 
lost!" In the morning, she found her absent-mindedly rolling a ball of 
clay between her hands. As always, she did not remember a thing. 
She listened as Hannah told her about the phone call, the panic in 
her eyes rising to match the exasperation in her daughter's voice. 
Her daughter sputtered, finished, looked away, almost ashamed of 
her anger. Then Mother spoke, quietly: 


"Hannah? Dear?" 
"Yes?" 
"You don't want me to stay here?" 


She could not discern the tone of Mother's voice. "| never said 
anything like that - what gives you the idea that | want you to go?" 


Setting: Very Fine 

Output: Single sheet of paper. Weight is exactly the 
same as the entered documentation. The sheet appears 
to be a single page from the entered SCP-914 
documentation, however when flipped over to the right, 
the reverse side is the following page in sequence. When 
flipped over to the left, the opposite side is the preceding 
page in sequence. No new documentation is included, 
but this item is significantly easier to store, if more time- 
consuming to browse. 


(Memo from General : It's screwing with us, you 
know that right? | don't CARE if it's been proven that it 
has no self-awareness, this thing is LAUGHING at us!)