Group Description: Appear to intervene in unconscious thoughts 
and dreams, and appear to have access to personalities of 
deceased persons. No infrastructure or organization present in our 
world, or universe, and it is possible that they primarily operate in 
other worlds and that we exist on their periphery, although this has 
been challenged by their apparent knowledge of electronic systems, 
culture, and significant persons in our universe. Known to the 
Foundation since 9/18/19 5. 


Known Members: No human members have been identified at this 
time, if any even exist. In addition, investigation has revealed that 
although business-oriented groups such as Marshall, Carter and 
Dark and the Factory are at least aware of this entity, there is no 
evidence of collaboration and, in the case of the Factory, appear to 
be actively working towards the group's destruction. 


Veil Threat Level: Medium. Oneiroi does not appear to want to 
break the veil of secrecy for anomalous objects, but also do not 
appear to have any interest in preserving it. Therefore, they are to 
be considered a passive threat to normalcy. 


Capabilities: Interacting with humans in dreams, impersonating or 
recreating the personalities of well-known persons, creating objects 
and interacting with human culture and society at will. 


Engagement Instructions: Due to the non-corporeal and passive 
nature of Oneiroi, personnel are not to engage, but collect as much 


documentation as possible in order to contribute to ongoing counter- 
anomaly research. 


Physical Records 
MANIFESTO OF A DREAMER 


IF YOU CAN DREAM IT YOU CAN DO IT THAT IS 
WHAT THE CREED IS BUT YOU SOIL IT WITH YOUR 
EAR-PLUGS YOU DON'T HEAR THE 
SWillegible)GOATS AND BILLYS SINGING TO THE 
FARMERS SLEEP, BECAUSE YOU DO. NOT. CARE. 
ABOUT. ANYTHING AND WE ARE TIRED OF IT 
ONEIROI, GIVE US OUR WAKING LIVES BACK, 
DREAMS ARE 


Research Note: This was found with SCP-1498, in a desk drawer. 


imstillworkingtheyrealmostdonewhentheysayimdone 
theymightbegiantsletmegrowawakethenighttimedream 
sbleedintodayandthesheepbaaohgodwhyaotheybaa. 


Research Note: Found taped to the bottom of an SCP-2028 
instance. 


Dear Inspector 


In response to your question, | do not know, because | 
grew up beside the garden of dreams. 


It's a beautiful place. Every possibility of fancy is here, 
and even the blackest pits of fantasy are redeemed with 
the innocence with which some follow their dreams. 


The Oneiroi gardens, they call it. Or that's what my 
Master called it. | didn't call it anything, because it was 
before | was with the written word. That was when | was 
free. 


| had a dream, of freedom. We were very good friends, 
and even though the Collective said | wasn't supposed to 
mingle with the anchors, as we were called, there was a 


beauty in knowing how it might feel to be awake, even if 
you never believed it could be true. 


That is the only freedom to this place, they cannot make 
a prisoner dream of being imprisoned. There was no 
dreamers police keeping me in check, and one day, it 
disappeared. In an unceremonious way, | was enslaved. 


This is a warning, sir. 


Now you think you're hold a cap on the only way for 
dreams to reach the masses, and the world is suffering 
for it. How many dreams have you stopped, Inspector? 
None. Do you think that the bootleg dreamcatchers will 
keep the sheepeople awake forever? 


If what you Say is true, the dream harvesters could be 
dangerous. 


Do you think your organization can defeat hopeless 
bleak despair? 


Research Note: Jhis letter was delivered by an unknown party to 
Dr. Jerry Grant's private residence. As it appears to reference his 
work on SCP- _ , it has been filed with the research for that object. 
Notably, Dr. Grant had reported difficulty sleeping and a noticeable 
decrease in dream recollection, however, since this letter was 
received, this problem has ceased. Dr. Grant now reports a regular 
REM cycle. 


July 5th, 1975 


It was always about music. A mournful hum hit the walls, gently 
reverberating until it found its way to their young ears. Usually that 
call was a mere whisper, slithering through holes of the cloth but this 
time it reached a much wider audience. 


Stitch the notes together and watch as a sweet hum turns into a 
song. Its sound is enough to keep memories on the edge of unreal, 
the melody permeating the souvenirs. 


Sweet little snippets of memories, spun into small little objects. And 
for what? You open the album and you can hear a hum, curling 
around your frame, slithering into your brain. 


You watch the photos change, you watch smiles twist and turn and 
curl into malicious smirks and hungry grins. Their teeth turn sharp 
and black. It is enough to close the aloum to make it all stop; 
memories, though, persist. 


They haunt your thoughts, colours oversaturated, even if the photos 
were black and white. They are bright, ringing in your head like a 
static noise you sometimes hear when things become too quiet. 


In the end, though, something always will distract you from this. 
Humans can't live focused on one thing only. Variation is where they 
thrive, and so soon the memories dissipate. But all you need is a 
reminder, a push. A trigger. 


A sound. 


Senses are such a whimsy creatures. Anything can remind you of 


things old gone. Time is cruel and unforgiving for your focus, but 
memories turn your body into a vessel of records. 


Doesn't it scare you, how everything that surrounds you can push 
that little button and make your brain replay what is hidden inside? 


You avoid meds, you avoid schoolbands, you avoid things that many 
find a little funny. They humor you, though, and you are grateful for 
that. People do have illogical fears, right? 


Allegiances and musicshops. You were never one for music, not 
anymore, at least. Trashing out old cassettes brought relief. Idea of 
karaokes brings a mild panic. Your throat exists only for talking. 


One text message and a person you barely know name of 
digitalising what they could get their hands on online was enough to 
bring memories again. A push of a little button of a laptop. You 
spend next few hours browsing all the posts they posted and 
reminiscing. 


Some memories resurfaced again and you sunk into them, 
remembering. You cried, even when you tried not to. The taste of 
those memories was fresh, and you heard everything again as when 
you heard it for the first time, except now reliving old life was 
oversaturated with nostalgia. 


You didn't avoid lakes before. You could swim and you stared into a 
face of yourself from forty years ago doing exactly this. 


Internet was an amazing tool, as you don't have to remember 
exactly what you are looking for. Satellite photos were blurred, and 
you couldn't see how much things have changed from comfort of 
your house. Pity, but magic of retirement is that you have a lot of 
time on your hands. 


You went there. Airplane ride, rented car, it was easy, all things 
considered. 


You didn't know, but any other day you would have heard a call by 
now. But today, it was quiet. 


Bodies gently bumped against each other, as a light mist-like film 
covering them swirled away into a white fog. It was quiet. You 
entered the lake because you wanted to see who they were, as you 
simply didn't see their faces from the shore. You left your phone, 
with intention of calling the police after you were done. 


Halfway through your swim to the beach, you sunk. Your memories 
are fragile things, after all. It was again that little button, this time not 
pressed but pried out of machinery of your brain with dark pliers. 


Something told you there was supposed to be something else down 
below. You breathed water into your burning lungs and You do not 
recognize the darkness swirling beneath the bodies. 


Ad Majorem Bonum 


“...Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula 
saeculorum, amen” mumbled Father Hector Gomez (S.J.) as he 
absently fingered his rosary beads. He opened his eyes and glanced 
at the clock. It was time. 


Gomez had spent much of his childhood living in the Smokey 
Mountain landfill outside Manila, until the nuns had rescued him and 
brought him to their school. A dozen years later, Gomez entered the 
seminary, his heart full of gratitude toward the Church and with a 
yearning to serve the world. For the greater good. A few years later, 
he entered the novitiate community and became a novice of the 
Society of Jesus, subject to vows of poverty, chastity and 
obedience. 


Obediently, he had accepted his new assignment. He had expected 
to be sent to one of those famously desperate corners of the world 
like the place he had been born — the Dharavi slum in Mumbai, or 
perhaps a favela in Sao Paulo. Instead he found himself here, at the 
odd little concrete bunker at Camp Hero on the eastern tip of Long 
Island. He glanced around his simple cell, then put on his collar and 
headed upstairs. 


The chapel was on Level C, mercifully far enough away from where 
the Procedure happened that it was usually out of earshot. Gomez 
entered the confessional and waited for Enrique to arrive. 


“Bless me, Father, for | have sinned. It has been two days since my 
last confession. | accuse myself of... the... um...” stammered 
Enrique through the thin screen. 


Gomez waited patiently. “It’s all right, Enrique,” he gently 
encouraged. After a pause, Enrique completed his confession and 
Gomez absolved him by means of the customary formula. They both 
exited the confessional and sat down together in the chapel’s rear 
pew. Enrique was crying, tears dripping onto his black cassock. 


Gomez embraced him. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.” 
“| had ... no idea that it was going to be like this.” 


“| know,” Gomez gently replied. “I think we’ve all had the same 
experience. Yesterday was your first time, wasn’t it?” 


“Yes.” Enrique gazed silently into the distance. “But... she’s just a 
child.” 


“We took a vow, Enrique. We both did. We all did. We are soldiers of 
God beneath the banner of the Cross. And you must remember, that 
no matter what it seems to us is happening, we must trust in the 
Church and in our leaders. Our mission is here. Our mission is to do 
what needs to be done, for the greater good.” 


Enrique looked at Gomez. 


“But it’s so awful,” sobbed Enrique. Gomez nodded grimly. “I heard 
that before we took over, the people who used to do this would take 
some kind of yellow pill every day to forget what they had done.” 


Gomez replied softly. “They did. But we must be stronger. The 
yellow pill was a selfish act, | think. And strangely enough, it seems 
to be something of a mercy to her that we have abandoned it. Since 
we took over the administration, we almost never have to carry out 
the Procedure more than once in a day. It has, something to do with 
our discipline, | think.” 


Gomez embraced Enrique again, silently, until the shaking stopped. 
"The spiritual exercises will help. Remember the disciplines," 
counseled Gomez. The two young priests returned to the rectory. 
Tomorrow it would be Gomez’s turn in the Room, and then Gomez 
would return to the chapel to make his own confession. And the 
cycle would repeat, for as long as was necessary. Again and again. 
In saecula saeculorum. Ad majorem bonum. 


Adam's Worthless - Choose Yokim 


The words went straight to his heart, shattering what little self- 
confidence he still had. 


The cluttered, shadow-filled room seemed like a perfect reflection of 
his own inner being at that time. Dark, unkept, illuminated by a 
single, dying light. Stacks upon stacks of discarded items - 
sculptures, paintings, tools, resources - lay scattered around the 
room, like forgotten ideas. In the middle of it all was him, a shadow 
of a man turned to stone, but weak to influence and control like clay. 


"That's a bit harsh, especially considering he's right there." 


The man wasn't alone of course. One of the other three with him 
spoke up, their masculine voice surveying anger at the underhanded 
attack at Adam. 


"Oh come on Yokim, he knows it's all in jest." The second voice was 
masculine too, but laced with a hint of malice. They would defend 
their previous statement regardless of any facts arisen - even if 
Adam were to prove themself superior, he would still be overlooked. 


Adam made no attempt to respond, not even feebly mouthing any 
words. He simply stood still and dully stared at the other three, no 
motivation to attack or respond spurring him to action. 


"I'm choosing Adam. Donny, if | hear anything like that again I'll 
break your damn jaw." The leader of the club was audibly feminine 
and extremely assertive in nature. If the lone guider for the group of 
only thirty-seven wasn't as strong willed as she was, the group 
surely would have disintegrated long ago. There were still cracks 
amongst the members, as was being observed between Donny and 
Yokim, but the glue of their collective goal was strong enough to 
hold them together. For now, at least. 


"I'll help. | could make a statue using it - I'll name it Donny Dickhead 


the Dumbass," Yokim growled at the grinning bully. He gently rested 
his hand on Adam's shoulder as a show of confidence. "Congrats 
Adam. I'm sure you'll do well." 


Adam didn't respond, still sore from Donny's blunt statement. He felt 
a brief sense of pride, but it was quickly washed away by the 
overwhelming feeling of worthlessness. The words echoed in his 
head, silencing everything else and demanding all of his attention. 
He felt no reason to stay, to continue burdening these people with 
his caustic present, stealing and wasting their heat, light, air. He 
turned away from them, mindlessly walking and weaving betwixt the 
piles of abandoned artwork, following the dim trail to the doorway. 


"Are you ok?" Yokim had followed Adam, human nature spurring 
him to ensure Adam's wellbeing. Unknown to him, the action was 
futile - the question had been asked countless times, but always 

received the same answer. 


"I'm fine," came the parroted, false response. It had become second 
nature to Adam, to lie about his emotional wellbeing. It was all he 
could respond with anymore - he had no motivation to say 
otherwise, to go through the trouble of sharing his burdens to 
another. No good would come from the truth anyway, other than 
brief pity before everyone stopped giving a shit. 


"You sure? You sound unhappy." Yokim was unconvinced by the 
dull response. 


"I'm fine," repeated Adam, briefly showing a faked smile to deceive 
Yokim. "Just tired." 


Tired was an understatement. Anxiety and depression wreaked 
havoc with Adam once the moon arose, its pale light strengthening 
the emotional werewolves and vampires. His world became vast and 
hollow once depression arrived, reminding him of the immense 
distance between him and his closest of friends. It whispered 
failures in his ears endlessly, finding fault in anything and everything 
he had done in his life, dredging up long-forgotten memories if 
needed; remember that kid you punched in primary school? His 
nose will always be slightly off, thanks to you. Remember that 
addiction you had? You'll never be free from it. You'll give in 


When injected with the venom, victims of SCP-779 will perceive 
SCP-779 as small humanoid figures with wings and believe that 
SCP-779 are assisting with the maintenance of the residence. 
Victims will continue to believe this even if the residence undergoes 
structural collapse. 


Continued exposure to SCP-779's venom can result in victims 
viewing them as their ‘children’ and defending them from most 
threats. SCP-779 appears to only sting humans, and will not 
undergo this parasitic relationship with other species.