Any experimentation using SCP-768 must be performed in a remote 
isolation chamber at least 300 m away from any critical alarm 
systems. Researchers experimenting on SCP-768 must not bring 
any devices with alert mechanisms or alarms into the testing area, 
and researchers with personal medical alarm systems must not be 
allowed into the area while experimentation is underway. 


Description: SCP-768 is a Seiko-brand travel alarm clock that is 
physically identical to a regular unit of its model in all regards. Its 
anomalous property is activated when the alarm feature of the clock 
is set and the alarm activates: instead of emitting a beeping alarm 
as in normal units of its model, it instead causes all alarms and 
alerts within 300 m to trigger. How SCP-768 accomplishes this is 
currently unknown, as disassembling SCP-768 and analyzing its 
components has revealed no irregularities or anomalous materials. 


Experimentation has shown that the types of alarm systems 
SCP-768 is capable of remotely triggering includes but is not limited 
to: 


¢ Alarm clocks of all kinds, whether analog or digital 

¢ Phone alerts and ringing for both mobile and hard-line 
telephones 

* Car alarms 


this, he could use a drink. 
Nemes pointed to the box he had been sitting on, then to the hole. 


"Take," he said. His voice was low and raspy. Lars realized the truth 
of the situation, and felt relief flow through him. He was just helping 
a burial, not arranging his own. The relief shooed away any 
inconvenient questions that lingered behind. 


He went to the box, followed by Nemes. Lars took one end, while 
the doctor took the other, using his good arm. 


When they were a meter away from the hole, a loud thump came 
from the coffin. Lars dropped his end of the casket. There was 
another thump, then the muffled sound of panicked screaming that 
Lars recognized as Polish. The coffin lid opened a crack, and he 
saw a few fingers probing desperately at the air. 


Nemes slammed his hand down on the lid, eliciting a scream from 
the box and causing the fingers to quickly draw back in. 


"Take!" he commanded again. His eyes narrowed. Lars felt he might 
be sick, and regretted downing an entire flask in a single sitting. He 
looked at the ground, and noticed that the rifle was by the officer's 
feet. He bent down and picked up his end of the coffin. Together, 
they carried it to the edge of the hole. 


"Drop!" Nemes said. Lars obeyed, and the coffin landed with a loud 
thud. The voice inside began screaming again. The doctor jumped 
into the hole and opened the lid, setting one foot into the coffin. 


"Bury!" he said. His voice sounded like stones grinding against one 
another now. 


Lars nodded. Nemes opened the lid, and for a half second, Lars 
could see the occupant of the box. He wore the uniform of a Russian 
soldier, and his hands were bound together. The skin on the left side 
of his face, from ear to chin, was gone, revealing a scabbed-over 
mess. The man in the box stared up at Lars, his remaining blue eye 
wide with fear. The doctor laid down and slammed the lid shut 
behind him with a force that caused the sides of the grave to 


shudder. A screaming came from the coffin once more, but was 
quickly cut off. 


Lars stared at the grave for a moment. Then, taking the shovel, he 
began to fill in the hole as quickly as possible. There was not 
enough soil that he could put between himself and that officer. 


Within a few minutes, the work was done. Lars was exhausted, and 
felt his insides burning. But, more than ever, he needed to leave. He 
sat for a few moments to catch his breath before grabbing his pack 
and leaving the clearing. 


Again, he began to run, just to get as much ground as possible 
between himself and the box. After a few seconds of running, he 
doubled over. His insides were burning. 


He felt the heat, hotter than any furnace, fill him. The pain made it 
impossible for him to scream, so he gurgled in agony. He fell on the 
ground and tried desperately to get the burning out of him, tearing at 
his stomach to get something, anything, out of him. 


For a split second, his thoughts turned to the flask Nemes had 
offered him. What the hell had been in it? That evil, con- 


Then there was only fire. 


Three meters underground, Feliks heard the explosion from Lars' 
body. An intense heat washed over him, and the ground quaked for 
several seconds. He cried out, and was about to pound on the lid of 
the coffin, when he heard a low bark coming from beside him. 


Feliks whimpered as the thing that had once been Dr. Matyas 
Nemes growled beside him. 


A Cackmas Carol 


December 24th, 2016. The halls of Site-59 were quiet, thanks to the 
elaborate network of layered soundproofing and noise-cancelling 
magnetic grids established for Cell 2337. Perhaps this Christmas 
Eve would indeed be a Silent Night. (Still, thanks to a particularly 
tactless Keter three floors below, the "Holy Night" aspect was right 
out.) 


Just outside Cell 2337, a small red sock had been duct-taped to the 
door - filled with gummy worms. 


Within the cell, SCP-2337 had just finished its argument for the 
existence of God to a pile of synthetic bedding material in the 
corner. Satisfied that the green strands had agreed with its 
reasoning by disintegrating into warped confetti, the corn crake 
fluffed out its feathers. It placed its head in a dark toilet paper tube, 
and, having sufficiently convinced itself that nighttime had come at 
last, plopped on the ground and snored. The walls of the cell shook 
from its god-tier napping skills. 


A sudden spark in the center of the cell — 


"A thing?!" yelped SCP-2337, flapping its arms in alarm. Darting its 
head from here to there in search of the uninvited Thing, its eyes 
came at last to a Thin Blue Thing, sitting in the middle of a patch of 
ectoplasmic fog: A gummy worm. 


"Dr. Spanko," moaned the candy. "Your hour of judgment is come." 
"Stranglefruits!" said SCP-2337. "Am a Cackmas miracules!" 


"Silence! | am the Ghost of Gummy Worms Past, here to show you 
the error of your ways. Long have you slaughtered my kin with your 
gluttonous cruelty. But in the end, who is truly devoured? The weak, 
taken too soon from life and saved? Or the strong, consumed by the 
weight of—" 


Before the ghost could finish, SCP-2337 snatched it in its beak and 
slid it down its throat in one swift move. 


Gourd Cack the us, 


Eleventy-one! 


(And how!) 


A Calculated Risk 


The door to Observation Room 221-D opened, then closed with a 
muted click. The man who slipped quietly through walked slowly 
across the room to the table set up in front of the window, and fondly 
regarded the old, worn calculator propped up facing the outside. 


"Hello," the man said by way of greeting. 


IS THAT YOU? flashed across the digital screen, jerkily, as if ina 
state of excitement or agitation. 


The man paused for a few moments before answering. "Yeah, it is." 


WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? scrolled across the screen. DO YOU 
HAVE ANY CLUE HOW LONG IVE BEEN WAITING? 


"Yeah," he whispered, a sad look crossing his face. 


Silence. What felt like an eternity passed under the slow ticking of 
the clock on the wall. 


YOURE ALL BIG NOW. it showed. 

"Yeah, | guess | am." 

Another pause. 

| GUESS THAT MEANS THAT WE CANT GO HOME ANY MORE. 
"... yeah." 


YOURE ALL IMPORTANT NOW, TOO. ITS NOT SAFE FOR YOU 
TO BE HERE. 


"| know. | just... wanted to come and say I'm sorry." 


FOR WHAT? 


He paused again. "For everything, | guess. Mainly for being selfish. 
For not thinking of the future." 


ITS OKAY. YOU WERE A KID. 


They stood for several more minutes in silence, neither of them able 
to give form to the thoughts in their minds. 


"| should go," he finally said. "I can't stay for very long." 
WILL YOU COME SEE ME AGAIN? it scrolled, slowly. 
"| will, | promise. For real this time." 

YOU SHOULD GO SEE THE YARN. HE MISSES YOU. 


The man gazed down at the worn calculator for only a moment more 
before he quietly exited the room. The guard stationed at the door 
started as he walked by, as if waking from a dream. 


"S-sir," the guard stammered as he scrambled to attention, his eyes 
resting on the gold-trimmed ID badge pinned to the man's chest. "I 
wasn't expecting..." 


"Carry on, Agent." 


A Canticle For Bright 


Brother Zhakh sat alone on a bench in the great hall of Overwatch 
Cathedral. The sun shone dimly through the stained glass windows 
above, doing little to chase away the winter chill. Holy Doctors milled 
about in their ceremonial white robes, preparing for the day's rites. 
D-Castes tended the fire and minded the candles that lit the biggest 
building left in the known world in the year 586 A.B., the seat of the 
Holy Foundation. 


Near the altar, a deacon led a group of initiates in chanting from the 
Holy Procedures. "SCP-087 is located on the campus of Redacted," 
he sang. 


"SCP-087 is located on the campus of Redacted," the initiates 
repeated. 


"The doorway leading to SCP-087 is constructed of reinforced steel 
with an electro-release lock mechanism," he sang. 


"The doorway leading to SCP-087 is constructed of reinforced steel 
with an electro-release lock mechanism," they repeated. 


Brother Zhakh shivered and pulled his robes tighter around himself 
for warmth as he listened to the chanting. The campus of Redacted 
was impossibly distant; a thousand kilometers or more, if it even still 
stood so many centuries after the Great Breach, and whether the 
doorway to that staircase even existed any longer was known only 
by the Expunged and the other heathens that dwelled in that land. 
Eight days had he sat in the great hall waiting to be seen; he began 
to wonder if the audience he had walked all the way from the 
Nineteenth Monastery for would ever happen at all. 


"Brother Zhakh, Deacon Assistant?" Zhakh looked up to see a man 
in the black robes of the Omega Guard, short sword on his belt, a 
scroll in his hands. 


"Yes, sir guardsman?" he meekly replied. 
"The Holy Father will see you now. Please follow me." 


Zhakh followed the guardsman from the great hall, down a labyrinth 
of corridors that descended into the earth. The brick and mortar of 
the great cathedral, which had taken the D-Castes nearly half a 
century to build, soon gave way to ancient concrete and steel, 
remnants of the Old Temple that once had stood on this spot before 
the world was consumed by demonic wrath. The guardsman 
approached one of many doors branching off from the long hallway. 
Reaching into his robes, he produced a piece of ancient technology, 
the making of which had been lost to mankind with so much else - a 
small plastic card with a black stripe along one side, which he 
placed into a lock on the door. A light on the device changed from 
red to green, and the guardsman gestured for Zhakh to enter. 


Lord Jack, Zhakh prayed silently to his namesake as he reached for 
the knob, speak for me in my hour of need. Secure for me the 
blessings of Your glory, as You secured the secrets of the ancient 
world. Contain all those who would do me harm, as You contained 
the chaos of the Great Breach when You died and rose again. 
Protect me with Your love and grace, as even now You protect Your 
Church from the devils that walk the world. For Yours is the 
Foundation on which we shall rebuild. Amen. 


The office was small and windowless, its walls covered with shelves 
upon which stood hundreds of books, some new, some old, some 
older than old. Neither candle nor fire lit the room, but a flickering 
electric lamp, one of the last in the world and worth its weight in 
telekill, shone brightly from the ceiling. A wooden desk stood in the 
center of the room, covered with reams of paper and vellum. Open 
in the center sat a great book, written and illuminated by hand - one 
of the few complete copies in existence of the Holy Containment 
Procedures, open to an illustration of the tale of St. Alto and the 
Dragon. Sitting on the edge of the desk, encased in glass, was an 
amulet on a chain - whether it was the real one, or one of the twelve 
replicae, only the man who occupied the office knew, but real or not 
it marked him as a vicar of the Lord Bright. 


Zhakh fell to his knees as the amulet's owner rose to his feet - an 


old man, his gray beard stretching down his chest, his ornate 
crimson robe embroidered all over in gold with the symbols of the 
Church - the trefoil that the Ancient Temple had used as its coat of 
arms, the Holy Amulet, the names and numbers of the Mobile 
Legions that had protected Lord Jack and the saints during the 
Great Breach, the emblems of the Heathen Temples who had 
repented and joined the Foundation after the Great Breach. Here 
stood Cardinal Doctor Zhakib Samesh III, Holy Father of the 
Foundation, Custodian of the Fifth Order of Secrets, Member of the 
Council of Thirteen - and Zhakh's father. 


"Good morning, my lord," Zhakh said. 


"What is your name, my child?" asked Cardinal Samesh. The 
cardinal knew full well the name of the man who kneeled before him, 
of course, but the manner by which a junior cenobite greets a father 
of the Church was an ancient tradition, and there were few left in the 
world who honored and respected tradition so greatly as the Holy 
Foundation. 


"Zhakh Samesh, my lord," Zhakh responded, "Deacon Assistant and 
Aspirant of the Order of St. Everett, of the cloister of the Nineteenth 
Monastery." 


"Does the black moon howl?" 
"Only when waning." 


"We accept your greeting." Cardinal Samesh extended his right 
hand, and Zhakh kissed the golden ring on his middle finger. "Rise 
and be seated." 


Zhakh rose from his knees and seated himself in the plain chair at 
one end of the desk as the cardinal seated himself in the elaborately 
carved throne at the other end. "For what purpose does an aspirant 
of St. Everett seek our attention this day?" 


"| have come," Zhakh said meekly, "to request that | be released 
from my holy orders." 


Cardinal Samesh raised an eyebrow quizzically. "This is indeed a 


great boon that you ask. Have you not been your entire life in the 
cloister?" 


"Yes," Zhakh answered as the cardinal knew he would. "| was born 
into the holy caste, as was my father, and his father, and his father, 
and so on unto St. Samesh the Liberator, who defended the 
survivors of the Seventy-Third chapel when it came under attack by 
heathen forces during the Great Breach." 


"And are you not at the cusp of completing your studies, and being 
ordained a Holy Doctor of the Church this next year?" 


"Yes, Holy Father. | submitted my doctoral thesis on the Holy 
Containment Procedures to the Council of Ethicists two months 
ago." 


"Then why do you now come before us, saying that you wish to 
abandon the Holy Foundation and live among the civilians?" 


Zhakh was silent a moment while he formulated his answer. "The 
Council of Ethicists rejected my findings entirely," he said, "and | 
believe that the Holy Foundation has lost its way if it believes that 
my findings are wrong." 


"What is the purpose of requiring aspirants to present a thesis?" 
Cardinal Samesh asked. 


"That the aspirant may learn to understand the words of the Lord 
Bright as revealed in the Holy Containment Procedures, that he may 
learn how they are meant to be applied, how to perform those rites 
which have been lost to us, to understand that which time and 
calamity have made unclear, and to refine the practices of the Holy 
Foundation to ensure that the rites are not performed erroneously." 


Cardinal Samesh nodded. "And what was the topic of your thesis, 
aspirant?" 


"The Rite of Montauk,” Zhakh said. 


Cardinal Samesh sighed knowingly. "We see," he said. "We might 
have suspected as much - you have been obsessed with that rite 
since |... since your father took you to see it performed when you