He took a right at the end of the hall, passing down another, then a 
left, starting to move faster, ignoring the odd, corroded twists of pipe 
and wire in some of the rooms he'd passed, or the suggestive, 
soggy mounds of...something. The crying kept getting louder, the 
high-pitched, gurgling wail of a baby. Ignore it, keep moving. It called 
the shots, it could make the whole place sound like a dentist's drill if 
it wanted. Drak pounded down a hall, nearly at a dead run, trying not 
to see the growing dampness of the walls, the changing texture of 
things. Broken plaster over old, greenish bricks, floor going from 
broken vinyl, to concrete, to dirt. 


He turned a corner, too fast, a gooey patch of black causing his foot 
to skitter, nearly dropping him to his knees as he clutched the bare, 
wet brick wall. He looked out in the the dim, mossy room, the sound 
of helpless, angry crying very, very loud now. He froze, staring, half- 
crouched and clutching the wall. It was standing in the middle of the 
room, a thick, ankle deep puddle of black jelly at its feet. The old 
man was turning, slowly, rocking in slow, side-to side motions. The 
crying was coming from the thing in his arms. 


It was a torso, wrapped in masses of what looked like barbed wire. 
The wire threaded in and out of flesh, some places looking like the 


bleeding skin had flowed like warm taffy over it. The ragged remains 
of the limbs twisted and stretched, every movement making the 
wires dig and tear more. It was hairless, the skin of its bare head 
and neck looking peeled and rotten, the face a mask of pain. The 
throat had been...opened, carefully, twisted and held with wires. The 
baby crying was in fact this grown, mute torso, mutilated to make 
that pitiful, helpless wail. 


The old man was watching him. Face turned, eyes locked to the 
man as he slowly tried to stand upright, ignoring the hissing of his 
boots, trying not to think of what would have to be done to a throat, 
to make it sound like a baby in agony...or where that pitiful torso's 
limbs had gone. It watched him, cracked teeth slightly parted, and 
slowly stopped its rocking. It dropped the wire-bound bundle, arms 
going limp at its sides as the mass of flesh and pain bounced off the 
ground, then rested face-down in the mossy grime, sending up a 
new wave of protest between bubbly, sucking breaths. It turned to 
face him, arms dangling, body wrapped in what looked like some 
kind of shredded cloth of oozing black fabric. 


Drak ran, bolting like a scared deer, throwing training and 
conditioning to the wind in the mad, blind, animal panic of escape. 
He screamed, panted, talked, laughed, anything to drown out the 
sound of the slow, stuttering steps lurking behind him. He ran, and 
ran, and ran, falling and hitting the ground like he'd been hit by a 
car, gasping and waiting for the end, muscles throbbing...then they 
would start again, those soft, rustling footsteps, driving him on, and 
on, and on. 


He didn't know it, but he'd run for four days before the old man 
started taking chunks out of him. 


Recovery was in the pre-dawn hours with no sun or moon, and went 
shockingly smooth, all things considered. SCP-106 was found in the 
middle of a field, making pumpkins sag and burst by squeezing or 
stepping on them. The team, a man short, was finally reinforced an 
hour before they caught it, pushing it back to the recovery chamber 
with the big halogen “sun guns’, nearly blinding two of the recovery 
crew in their zeal to have the old man back under lock and key. 


It sat in the cell, without a moment's attempt to try and escape. It 
sat, and did nothing, head tilted, arms and legs limp. One MTF 
member stated that it looked sated, and was told to shut up in an 
official capacity. Disappearances were glossed over, murders 
quieted and made un-newsworthy, urban legends seeded and 
caressed. Over all, it went well, once the hell was over. 


Weeks later, an observation tech made a note in the day's log. 
SCP-106 was observed to suddenly produce a large handful of 
small white objects, later identified as teeth and finger bones, and 
set the pile on the floor. It then sorted these objects in to what 
seemed random piles, later identified as separated by age of victim. 
It then stared at these items for several hours, then re-collected 
them. 


The significance of this was considered unworthy of contemplation. 


Halloween at S & C Plastics 


October 24 


"| hate this holiday." Doctor Johnathan West cleaned egg off of the 
card-reader, swiped his ID, and entered the S & C Plastics building. 
Had this been any other Foundation-owned location, the jokers who 
had decided to plaster the site in chicken ovum (some of which 
smelled like it had been rotting since Easter) would've been 
detained. But no; instead, this was Site 87, and was in the 
backwoods town of... let's just call it Backwoods, and people would 
get suspicious of kids disappearing. 


West nodded to the girl at the reception desk and took a pair of mini 
Twix bars out of the stainless steel bowl placed there. He noticed 
that someone had attached a note reading "Take Only Two" to the 
bowl, and had left a plastic severed hand in it. Cute, but everyone 
knew 330 was locked up in another site. Nothing like that would be 
here, and besides, they never decorated the site anyway. 


He took out his Foundation-issue smartphone (quintuple encrypted, 
needed at least 6 different pass-codes to unlock, pain in the ass if 
the screen didn't respond) and checked his e-mail. He saw the 
invitation to the Site 87 Halloween party and automatically deleted it; 
after the fiasco last year, he wasn't about to go again. They'd yet to 
figure out who spiked the punch with E-5719, and Agent Ewell still 
turned yellow if you got him angry enough. 


Also in his e-mail was an invitation to Dr. Pickman's online seminar 
regarding anomalous works of literature ("Maybe I'll go to one of 
Pickman's lectures when he stops being such a self-important 
blowhard."), a reminder from Doctor Margaret Reese in Biology that 
it was his turn to pick up coffee tomorrow, and something about a 
pool for buying Halloween candy. He shrugged, pocketed his phone, 
and headed for his office in the inanimate objects wing. 


October 25 


"Oh, come on! Twice in two days?!" Once again, Site 87's exterior 
was coated with eggs, and this time, toilet paper, too. The security 
staff were scratching their heads, but West had to give the 
pranksters credit, they were efficient. In the space of only a single 
night, they had practically mummified Site 87 with sticky egg residue 
and toilet paper all over. On his drive around town to the local 
Dunkin' Donuts, he had seen that about a quarter of the houses had 
been either egged, TP'd, or both. The rest were perfectly intact, with 
their Jack O' Lanterns grinning, their fake cobwebs untorn and the 
foam gravestones sticking out of their yards unbroken. 


Security was baffled, nonetheless. In the break room, the guards 
were talking about how nobody showed up on the hidden cameras, 
and that eggs and rolls of Charmin were being thrown at the building 
from just off of the frame. When security actually went outside the 
building to confront the vandals, nobody was there. West had to 
admit that was just a tad disconcerting, but it was security's problem, 
not his. 


West traveled to his office and spent the rest of the day alternately 
looking out his window at the cleaning crew, checking his e-mail, 
and attempting to concentrate on a report about E-331. 


October 26 


Everyone was asking the same questions all day: "How the fuck did 
they get on the roof?!" "And who the hell makes toilet paper rolls that 
long?!" 


A reminder to all staff was issued that "All Halloween costumes 
based on Keter Class SCPs are forbidden. Most of them are 
classified, anyway. And yes, this does include -ahem- "sexy" 
costumes based off of SCP-682." West sighed at the fact that they 
had to be reminded of that. He remembered briefly considering 
taking a Class-Omega amnestic after seeing one of those 
aforementioned costumes at a party three, four years ago. 682 with 
tits was just... wrong. 


October 27 


"Sorry, West. You pulled the shortest straw. You gotta go buy the 
candy." West gave Dr. Reese a look, and held up his straw for 
comparison to the others, sighing. Melbourne was grinning like a 
fool, but Reese smiled at West. "C'mon. It's for the kids. And don't 
buy all black licorice; we want people in this town to think we're not 
completely evil." She handed West the money collected for the 
candy pool (about 400 dollars), as well as an extra 50. "The janitorial 
staff is running low on detergents." 


"Got it. Mind if | use your van? | worked all night, and left my car in 
the lot..." 


"Got egged?" 
"Can't even see out of the windshield." 
Reese handed West her keys and nodded to him on his way out. 


West drove through town, noticing that there were far more houses 
with decorations and far fewer houses that had been vandalized... 
he wondered if there was a connection, and remembered he had to 
tell someone back at the Site about that. For now, he had to focus 
on getting the treats for the kids (why Site 87 decided to hand out 
candy annually was beyond him; something about "Community 
Outreach". From a supposed plastics company.) and wondering 
what, exactly, was so bad about black licorice. It was delicious, once 
you acquired the taste for it. 


An hour later, he drove back to the site. It was getting dark out. As 
he drove down a side street, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a 
roll of toilet paper being thrown at a house lacking decorations. That 
tore it; he was going to find out who these little pricks were. He 
slammed on the brakes, took out his smart phone, and... took a 
photograph of a toilet paper roll throwing itse/f at a house. 


And then an egg came sailing at his face. He quickly ducked back 
into his car and drove off, cursing loudly. "| HATE Halloween!" 


October 28 


"Let me get this straight," said a research assistant from the back of 
the presentation hall. "Living rolls of toilet paper? And... they attack 
undecorated buildings? 


"Pretty much," West said rubbing his eyes, "But they're just 
autonomous. Not alive." The photograph he took with his 
smartphone was on display on the projector screen behind him; the 
director of the site had approved the meeting at the last minute 
because, in her words, "If it means we stop smelling egg 
everywhere, it's worth it". 


"It explains why the security cameras didn't see anything; there was 
nothing to see. Just toilet paper flying at the building from nowhere." 


Dr. Reese chimed in. "And how they got onto the roof... but what 
about the eggs?" 


"| don't know, maybe it's a poultrygeist. | honestly don't know." He 
looked at the picture behind him and sighed. "I hate this holiday." 


"Well, what can we do? Do we attempt to incinerate them?" 
Everyone stared at the person who made the suggestion 
incredulously; it was the same research assistant, who sank in his 
seat. "...right, | Know, Special Containment Procedures, not Special 
Destruction Procedures. Just a suggestion..." 


"Well, firstly... | propose we attempt to catch a ‘live’ specimen, and 
then attempt to..." West sighed. "Protect ourselves from this 
phenomenon." He picked up a box next to him and opened it; it was 
full of foam gravestones, fake cobwebs, and chains of plastic skull- 
lights. "Right. Once we actually catch one of these things, we... 
decorate the site. I've asked the horticultural department to provide 
a number of pumpkins for those who want to do Jack O' Lanterns 
and you'll find decorative materials by all the entrances. Any 
questions?" 


Reese smirked at West. "I thought you hated this holiday, 
Johnathan." 


"Desperate times, Doctor. Any other questions?" Nobody spoke up. 
"Right then. Let's get to work." 


October 29 


"Congratulations, agent. You've managed to successfully contain a 
roll of Charmin and some dairy products." Dr. West watched the new 
E-Class Object, E-5768, through the plexiglass window. It looked 
ridiculous; it was a roll of toilet paper, with a dozen eggs orbiting 
around it. Every time an egg got broken or thrown, a new one 
spontaneously generated itself. Dr. West was making notes on his 
clipboard. "Ectoentropic properties... telekinetic in nature... and... 
What do you think, Ewell? Safe-class or just Anomalous Item? The 
latter means | have less paperwork to do..." 


Agent Ewell stood next to West, with literal egg on his face. It had 
taken him over an hour of driving around town to capture a 
specimen and then he had to grab it with a butterfly net... he didn't 
expect eggs to come flying out of nowhere. And now, he looked like 
an omelet. "Sir?" 


"Yes, Ewell?" 


"With all due respect, there are some times when | really fucking 
hate this town." 


"Could be worse. You could be assigned to active MTF duty trying to 
contain sapient fungus or something." 


"I'd take the fungus over this place any day." 


West picked up a box of plastic vampire bats and handed them to 
Ewell, picking up a box of orange streamers for himself. "Shut up 
and help me decorate; we're supposed to have the western half 
finished by 1600 hours." 


"Yes, sir." 


October 30 


SCP-661: Salesman, Too Good to Be True 


Item #: SCP-661 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-661 is confined to a 
standard holding cell measuring 6m x 8m at - . Standard 
humanoid containment provision allows SCP-661 access to a bed, 
toilet, and a sink with a mirror, all of which are currently contained 
within the holding cell. At subject’s request, the room is kept at an 
average temperature of 20°C. All other requests must be approved 
by a senior staff member. 


Guards assigned to SCP-661 must wear ear protection capable of 
sound neutralization and white noise generation. In the past, guards 
certified by Foundation medical staff as deaf have been permitted 
contact with SCP-661 without ear protection; however, this practice 
is now discouraged. Security cameras monitoring SCP-661 should 
have sound recording functionality disabled. 


All personnel coming into contact with SCP-661 without ear 
protection are to be assessed to determine if they have come under 
the influence of his abilities. Where uncertainty exists personnel 
should be made subject to 24-hour quarantine before reassessment. 
The cycle of quarantine and reassessment should continue until 
assessing staff are satisfied that SCP-661’s influence has 
diminished. Personnel reviewing audio test logs should also be 
made subject to assessment. 


SCP-661 is to be fed three times per day with food from the canteen 
at - ,andis to be provided with drinkable liquids six times a day. 
Subject has expressed a preference for flavoured drinks instead of 
water; access to these is permitted as a guarantor of good 
behaviour, with the privilege temporarily revoked if SCP-661 causes 
trouble for Foundation staff. 


"Well, looks like your brilliant theory was correct, Doctor! Not a 
single egg or roll of paper on the building this morning!" Reese held 
up her coffee. "| propose a toast! " The rest of the break room all 
held up invisible glasses and said "Hear hear!" 


West smiled amicably, running his hands through his hair. "Thank 
you, but there is no guarantee that the events will not occur again in 
another year..." 


"They ain't egged us today, and that's what matters!" Matterson 
sighed. "Guess we can all get back to work now that we don't have 
to help scrape eggs off the building." 


"Just in time for the party, too. Ya goin’, West?" Reese grinned at 
the doctor. 


"| don't think so, no." This was met by sarcastic boos and hisses. 
"Oh, so sue me if | don't want to have purple skin and blue hair until 
Christmas this year, too!"