One of the women started to scream too, and said she was stuck, 
and she started to thrash around and hit the girl’s belly and that 
made her scream louder, and they both wouldn't stop screaming 
about the pain, and wanting it out, and her hand coming off, and | 
curled up under her bed and tried to make it go away, and then | 
heard some kind of wet noise and the woman screamed louder and 
then | think there was blood and she fell and then | went in to the 
dark. 


| woke up in my room. | think | had a bad dream while | was with 
Kate. She is Kate, | think, even if she isn’t looking the same. Kate 
always loved me. 


6- 


| did not get any food, but | am ok. More water, lots of water, all over 
and in. | feel nice and warm, and my skin is soft and smooth. When | 
pull it, it stays up for a while. | made little peaks on my chest and 
laughed. Maybe | will show Kate my new trick. | am so glad they let 
me see her again. The little marks are red now, and they push in 
really far. the stuff inside is very sweet, | like it. 


The floor hurts now, it feels too hard, so | try to stay on the bed, but 
that is too rough. | miss kate’s skin, and she misses me too. | can 
hear her crying because | am away, and | try to cry but all that 
comes out is this milk, but | do anyway. She misses me so much, | 
can tell, and the others can be so mean to her, but | will help her, | 
can keep her safe, and she knows. 

The door opened, and | tried to tiptoe down the hall because the 
floor is so hard. The woman from my dream was gone, and one of 
the men, so it was only three people. The other woman looks ugly, 
she has bags around her eyes and cheeks, and she seems mean 
and glares at me, so | keep away from her, and the man is quiet too, 
but | think he is blind because his eyes are funny. Kate was crying 
for me when the door opened, so | ran to her and her skin felt so 
good on mine | forgot about my feet and the blood on the floor and | 
kissed her on the lips because | was so excited, but | pulled back 
because | didn’t want to scare her. 


She was ok, and she moaned and leaned up so | kissed her again 


and again, and she said to stop and that she was scared, but she 
meant the other people because | am so gentle, and | told them to 
stop scaring her, but the guards told me to shut up. | touched her 
belly and it pulled at my hand as | told her not to be scared and 
kissed her ear. She touched me and | leaned against her, and the 
marks moved as she cried and | told her | loved her, and she wasn’t 
able to say it back because the people were making her moan and 
cry, but | know she feels it too. | love Kate, and | said | was sorry 
about before, when | made her cry, and made her mother get so 
mad at me, but it was ok and her skin made me hurt less and she 
felt so good. 


The other man told me to fuck off because it was his turn, and | told 
him not to say that around her, and she tried to crawl away from him 
and he touched her where he is not allowed, so | hit him really hard. 
My hand felt funny and didn’t look right any more, but | was able to 
jump over and grab him and show Kate that | would not let him do 
that. | made his air stop and he tried to hurt me, but | wouldn't let 
him and | kept squeezing, and then he stopped and the guards 
made me let go, which was fine because Kate loves me and | kissed 
the places he touched to make them better. 


She started to scream again, and her belly moved a lot and she said 
she wanted it out, and | told her to calm down, that | would make it 
better, but she didn’t listen and | had to hit her to make her stop, but 
it was ok because | kissed it better and she loves me. | love Kate. 
The guards made me leave her, and | tried to make them stop, but 
they were too strong and made me go. My marks are open now, and 
they like to pull at my fingers how Kate’s mouth did. | like to think 
they are her, and | close my eyes. 


T- 


| am so smooth, and | was able to take off some skin today, and it 
was nice and pink underneath and that is ok, because | don’t want 
my skin, | want Kate’s skin, | want her soft hands and face. The 
others are gone, and | was with Kate alone and | told her all the 
things | needed to, and we were together and her belly pulled at me 
and | stuck, and when | came away | left my skin like a gift, and now 
| am soft like her, and my teeth feel so soft and springy when | bite 


her. 


She loves whenever | touch her, and she barely screams, and when 
she does | help her stop but the guards make me stop and | scream 
at them too. | hate them but | love Kate. 


8- 


She wants me to be there, that is why it is so big, so | can stay 
there. she tried to put me there, but | was scared but | am not now 
and | love her forever. she is so hot inside, | will be safe. 


Documents recovered in Holding Cell 3 of the SCP-231 
containment area. No correlation to the above events 
have been found in any Foundation documents. No 
physical effects have ever occurred as a result of 
Procedure 110-Moutauk. Psychosomatic hallucinations 
are blamed for all the above mentioned effects. All 
inquires are to be reported to Central Records, pending 
approval by Site Security 


Recovered Media: The Hard-Boiled Adventures of 
Murphy Law 


On 24/12/2017, a Foundation-operated bot (I/O-ISMETA) located a 
series of archived discussions pertaining to SCP-3143 across 
several defunct comic book enthusiast forums, totaling 49 posts. 
Prior to enactment of standard Foundation media alteration protocol 
912-A ("TWILIGHT ZONE"), 7 relevant files were recovered. 


These files are included below. 


Recurrence 


I'm in a crowd, in front of a stage. Not sure where, but it doesn't 
matter, just that it's dark. Up on the stage | can tell there's a band. 
Just noodling a bit, sounds like, till the drummer counts off, and that 
familiar bass line kicks in. 


The lights slowly go up over the band, punctuated by a spotlight on 
the harmonica player at his entrance. The crowd is grooving, but I'm 
transfixed by the harmonica player. An odd sense of familiarity about 
him. It couldn't be, but.... He reaches the front of the stage, where a 
microphone stand is waiting for him. 


"All... my... friends... know the low rider...." 
That voice... it's unmistakable.... 
"Low... Ri... der... is a little higher!" 


And he goes back to the harmonica. Who knew Fernand could play 
the harp too? Suddenly it's the second verse, and he's looking 
straight at me. Like he's serenading me, and grinning the whole 
time. 


"Low... Ri... der... drives a little slower.... Low... Ri... der... is a real 
goer!" 


Then, by God, he winks at me. 


And usually, by this point, | wake up in a cold sweat, and swear off 
deep-fried butter with bacon. Again. 


Red Harvest 


Previous: The Long Goodbye 


Lakewood is a long stretch of nothing leading no where. The resort 
town got hit hard by the Spanish Influenza in 1916; all that's left now 
is a few empty homes and a whole lot of graves. It's got a cemetery 
twice the size of the whole city. 


Couldn't ask for a better place to finish this. 


| flip my coat collar up against the brisk morning chill and fish around 
in my pockets for another foil-wrapped stick of gum. The .45 is a 
reassuring lump against the back of my knuckles. It doesn't count for 
much — not against what's coming. But it's something. 


The first automobiles show up early. Too early. Two topless Buicks; 
dark burgundy. Their engines growl with irritation as they approach 
the cemetery's gates. | don't need a crystal ball to know who sent 
them. 


"Mr. Capone is not taking visitors at this time." 


Twenty-four hours before I'll be standing in the middle of a 
cemetery, I'm sitting in a ridiculously expensive leather chair worth 
more green than I'll see in the span of my career. The rest of the 
office is just as fancy. Full of things | want to grab and smash just on 
goddamn principle. 


The lawyer is one of the Outfit's front-men; a freshly shaven baby- 
face plopped between Capone and his illicit dealings. Between him 
and men like me. | eye him up while chewing on a fresh stick. 


"That's fine." | pull the gum-wad out of my cheek and flatten it down 
on the chair's fancy upholstery with my thumb. "I thought he might 


want to know about the meat-monger helping Weiss muscle in on 

his territory. But if he's not concerned about some Sarkite hocking 
miracles to the Northsiders, | guess you're right. Ain't got a thing to 
chat about." | turn to go. 


| just lobbed three or four key-words right into his face. For a 
moment, he just stares at me — slack-jawed — as his brain tries its 
hardest not to fry itself inside his skull. 


"Wait. Ah, wait," he finally manages, voice trembling. "Just, um, wait 
a moment, and let me —" 


| stop and fold my arms around my chest. When | turn, | 
‘accidentally’ bump an expensive looking vase with my elbow. 


The sound of it shattering on the floor is the third best thing I'll hear 
all day. 


The Buicks circle like vultures around a carcass. They finally slip 
through the cemetery gate and settle on a spot about ten yards 
ahead. Five suits step out. The man in front is the lead; he's large 
and burly, with a dark coat and a painfully bright red tie. 


They approach as one, weaving their way through the maze of 
crooked, tilted headstones. Ol' Red-Tie gives me a solid once-over. 


"Mr. Hartliss, | presume." 
| unwrap the stick of gum and pop it into my mouth. "That's me." 


"| was told you had some information that might be of use to my 
employer." 


"Yep : " 


Silence follows. | can fee/ Red-Tie's patience wearing thin. But I've 
got to stall — the timing on this is critical. If | get it wrong, I'll be 
joining the bones under our feet. 


"And o" 


"Weiss is working with a meat-monger. He's the reason you've been 
having so much trouble with the North Side Gang — the Sarkites 
have been giving him support." 


Red-Tie scowls. "Yeah? And what're the meat-mongers getting out 
of this deal?" 


| hold my breath and lift my eyes toward the distant horizon. When | 
see what's coming, | start to smile. 


Two cream-white Cadillacs. Both of them coming in fast. 


"Why don't you ask them yourself?" 


The assistant's face is perfect. Too perfect. Everything about it 
makes me want to rearrange it with my fists — from that chiseled 
jaw to those baby-blue eyes, all the way up to that ridiculously well- 
coiffed hair. 


"Dr. Reinhardt sees no one without an appointment," he informs me, 
lifting that square jaw up into the air. Like he's just daring me to take 
my shot. 


Twelve hours before I'll be standing in the middle of a cemetery, I'm 
in front of a door in a ritzy office building tucked away in Chicago's 
bustling Loop district. I've been waiting two hours to have a face-to- 
face with Reinhardt; after three secretaries and four referrals, I've 
finally managed to track him down. The only thing between him and 
me is this 6-foot-5 slab of beef. 


"| just want to give him a message." | pull out the letter. 
He holds out his palm. 


"It's a three-parter. The letter gives him a time and a place. Part two 
is aname: Aaron Lisowski. Can you remember that?" 


He snorts. 


"Repeat it for me." 


| have never heard of a "Tahirah al-Zarqa" working for 
submitted by her prior to this SCP-922, and I have nev 
al-Zarqa. 


No one I've talked to knows anything about Tahirah al 
found that pretty much no one outside of has hea 


! don't know how long this has been going on, or how 
of some other anomalous research or an experiment, | 
described in the documentation of SCP-922, | assume 


From the office of Dr. Jaime Marlowe. 


Footnotes 

1. For the purposes of secrecy and continued containment efforts, 
the name of the university in question is censored in this document 
to all personnel not assigned to Site-305. 

2. Similar cases involving non-sapient or otherwise non-humanoid 
"replicants" have been previously documented: al-Zarga, Tahirah, 
Marlowe, Jaime, "My Sister is an Only Child: The Inconsistent Carbo 
Family"Foundation Journal of Visual, Cognitohazardous, Spatial, 
and Temporal Anomalies; January 2006 


« SCP-921 | SCP-922 | SCP-923 » 


“Aaron Lisowski’. Now hand it over." 

| hand him the letter. He slides it into his pocket. 
"Ready for part three?" 

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Whatever." 


| reel my arm back and take my shot. When it connects to that solid 

jaw, a jolt of pain stabs down through my shoulder and straight into 

the socket. The sound of his skull cracking against back of that door 
is worth it, though. Second best thing I'll hear all day. 


"Tell him Volodya says hello." 


The pair of Cadillacs settle some distance away from the Buicks. 
Two men emerge, each flanking the third. 


Reinhardt. He's a short, handsome looking fellow with an easy 
smile. Light-skinned, light-haired. Perfect nose. Looks a lot like the 
muscle-head | clocked in his office. 


He shows no fear. Reinhardt's not the sort of man who's afraid to 
come to a meeting like this in person. It's no wonder why; | can 
smell the magic on him. He's the real deal — a regular Harry 
Houdini. Just like Volodya. 


Capone's men aren't panicking — not yet. Still, they're none too 
happy about this new development. All their guns are out. They 
keep their distance, watching Reinhardt as he approaches with his 
two flunkies. 


"The hell is this?" Red-Tie asks. 


Reinhardt stops a few yards away. Capone's boys have guns; 
Reinhardt has magic. And me? 


I've got a fast mouth. Time to use it. 


"This is Doctor Reinhardt, born Aaron Lisowski." | keep one hand in 
my pocket, squeezing the grip of my .45. "He immigrated here in 


1918, right after the war. Part of a wave of Sarkites who came over 
from Europe, stealing people's identities." 


Reinhardt's expression is cold, but there's a hint of amusement. 
Capone's men can't decide which one of us to point their pistols at. 


"But he hit a snag. Sarkite magic can steal your looks, but it can't 
steal your past. That's where Weiss comes in. He uses his criminal 
connections to falsify documents and clean up the details. Reinhardt 
brings them over and gives them a new face; Weiss gives them a 
paper-trail. In exchange, Reinhardt helps Weiss with his little war." 


"Very good, Mr. Hartliss." Reinhardt's smile is thin and sharp; it 
exposes both rows of teeth. All of them perfectly white, straight, and 
tiny. Just like his pecker, | wager. 


Red-Tie takes a step back. | don't blame him. Capone's not a fan of 
magic — can't imagine any of his boys signed up to deal with face- 
stealing flesh sorcerers. 


"One thing | don't get, though. Volodya. What you did to her — it 
was personal. Why?" 


Reinhardt lifts one immacutely plucked eyebrow. "Personal?" 


"You locked her away in a dingey apartment, carved out her tongue, 
then spilled her guts — all without so much as giving her a stiff drink. 
There's ruthless, then there's cruel." 


Reinhardt laughs. "| suppose you could phrase it that way." 
"So why? Fill me in.” 


Reinhardt tilts his head. "Do you know who she was, Mr. Hartliss? 
What she was?" 


"A Sarkite. Like you." 


For one moment — just one moment — that perfect face of his is 
twisted up with something fierce and baleful. It's gone as fast as it 
comes; a brief ripple across a tranquil pond. A pond filled with 
piranhas. 


"Not like me." Flat and hard. "Nothing at all like me." 


Looks like | touched a nerve. "So, what. You're not a Sarkite, now? 
Could have fooled me." | sniff the air. There's magic on Reinhardt's 
flunkies, too. They're just as steeped in the art as Reinhardt is. Both 
of them are big, rough looking bastards — probably just as hard to 
kill as Volodya.