recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
I can't feel your hair, the river streaming down
Out of your head and into my open lap.
It once was such silk, always soft to feel,
But now so sparse and wired.
How frayed, such disarray.
I can't feel your face, the mask so perfect
Upon your head and kept so flawless.
It once was porcelain, almost mystical,
But now so torn and broken.
How cracked, so out of place.
I can't feel your hand, a thing so fragile
That it might break if looked at wrong.
It once was dainty, so delicate,
But now so bent and shattered.
How singed, so pulverized.
I can't feel your touch, something I've loved
Ever since we had once met long ago.
It once was stimulation, exhilarating,
But now so gone and so far away.
How far could it possibly be?
I can't feel your pulse, the thing I miss most.
I can't feel.
I can't.
November 15
Migraine again. They always seem to strike at the worst time, though I have a pretty good guess what the cause of this one is. The F Work pays well, but sometimes shit happens and it's hard to make ends meet. Sarah's been sick again and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week. I've got a lot of paperwork to finish up but I don't think I'm getting any more done tonight.

November 17
I felt a lot better this morning. I don't know if it's just the migraine medication working, but it's not hurting as much. Funny thing is that when I woke up, I could have sworn I heard some weird scraping sounds, but it may just be a side effect of the meds.
Now the problem is that Sarah's in trouble at school again. Talking during class, throwing things, generally being belligerent. That she takes after her dad is the best and worst part about her. Guess it's time for another Lecture from Mom (tm).

November 18
Head hurting again. And here, I thought it was starting to get better. Lost my keys at work too, had to spend an hour looking for them. FML.

November 19
And… feeling better again. Heard another scraping sound when I woke up, maybe there's a mouse in the walls behind my bed or something? Was bleeding a little from my head when I woke up, kinda weird but it didn't hurt and stopped pretty quick, so I didn't think too much of it.
Weekly report is due tomorrow, gotta get cracking.

November 20
Ugh. Head hurt. No more writing tonight.

November 21
Heard that same scraping sound again when I woke up, but I don't really care about that. I don't know what I've been doing different, but damn it feels good to be alive. Hell, I don't even care about the weird looks Sarah's been giving me. I feel like I can just scrape away all the cares in the world and live pressure-free.

November 22
Life is awesome. Sarah is fine. Scrape away.

November 23
Scrape, scrape, scrape away.

Autopsy Report:
Assistant Researcher Dr. Evelyn Winters was found dead in her home along with her daughter Sarah Winters on 11/24/██ after having failed to report to work for 2 days. Cause of death in both cases was determined to be massive cranial trauma; both had holes carved into the top of their skulls and were missing all brain tissue.
Sarah appears to have been restrained and her skull penetrated by a corded electric drill using a wood spade bit. It is likely that she died from shock and blood loss before her brain tissue was removed using a serving spoon. All of the tools used were found, cleaned, in the kitchen.
Dr. Winters initially appeared to have died the same way, however the hole in her skull does not appear to have been caused by a tool. Instead, the wound's edges are consistent with having been repeatedly scraped over a course of several days by what appears to be extremely fine teeth. There is no evidence suggesting how her brain was removed at this time.
No brain tissue was discovered anywhere in the home, nor did the response team find evidence of any individuals other than the victims having been in the house. The front and back doors were both locked from the inside.
Dr. █████████
Senior Observer
Act 2, Scene 2:
James: (Crying) But can't they help you in some way?
Butt ghost: There is no cure for butt cancer.
J: But what will I do without you?
BG: James, you've never needed me in the first place
J: What do you mean?
BG: Inside of you lies the power, not me. I'm only a spirit that haunts the posteriors of mammals.
J: I can't let you go.
BG: You already have. (Gestures to the framed photo of James with his arm wrapped around a yield sign.)
J: It's not what you think!
BG: No, it's what I know.
J: But butt ghost…
BG: Shh, don't speak. You've broken my heart enough already.
J: I can't let you go.
BG: You had no trouble letting your other women go!
J: That was years ago, Butt Ghost!
BG: A butt ghost never forgets.
J: You forgot me once.
BG: I had to go soul-searching, James.
J: And what did you find?
BG: I found my spirit place. The air was still and the water was cool. I felt a presence. I turned to look, but no one was there. I was alone. The moon overhead gazed down at my prone body. I felt nothing and everything at once. And that's when I realized, my people need me.
J: Ankle ghost will be fine.
BG: It's not just Ankle Ghost anymore, James, it's the world.
J: What does that even mean?
BG: They're revoking ghost licenses everywhere now.
J: No!
BG: It's true.
J: But what about your estranged relationship with your brother?
BG: Ghost Butt will either have to get out of my way, or join me.
J: How?
BG: James, you know me too well to question my ability in dealing with these issues.
J: Very well. I can only hope you don't fail.
BG: Failure is not an option.
J: Good luck.
BG: Thank you.
J: Here take this. (Passes plunger)
BG: I will not let you down.
J: Goodbye, Butt Ghost. (Salutes)
BG: Goodbye, James. (Flushes)

Something even the loneliest man can relate to, Goodbye Ghost brings us to realize our own mortality and the importance of our relationship with our friends, regardless of corporeality. - Foundation Tribune
Play of the year. Period. - CI Review
Guaranteed to make you both laugh and cry, the Butt Ghost's performance is the best of the the year, if not the century. - Time-anomaly Magazine
What the FUCK is this shit? - O5-7
Carmela carefully packed a basket of ofrendas for the trip to the cemetery. A cloth doll for Hernanda, a bottle of tequila for Fernando, a bouquet of cempasúchil… The rest of the family would bring their own gifts, but these were hers. And hopefully her lost family would visit and comfort her from Heaven. Abuela Maricela used to say that she talked with her husbands after drinking Los Recuerdos, but Carmela never had. Of course, she'd never sipped the wine of a husband or daughter before, only that of cousins of cousins or uncles or ancestors dead before she was born.
Picking the berries from their graves only four months ago had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done. The temptation to eat them right then and there had been nearly overwhelming, but she knew that all of them would be needed to make the wine. Don Peñaranda was the only one in their village who knew the exact recipe, but he had assured her that it would be ready in time for Día de los Muertos, even if only barely.
He said he would bring the bottles by later that afternoon, after the flight of the kites. Carmela used to love flying them with her family and friends, and would try to put on the best face she could, but watching the messengers to the dead fly overhead was less joyous now. Abuela Maricela said it would pass, that time and Recuerdos would help ease the pain, but Carmela didn't know. The large, colorful kites had been Hernanda's favorite part of the celebrations.
Carmela's hands stilled as she stared off into the distance, the memories of the brightly colored kites mixing with the faces of her little girl and husband, and the green grass covering their fresh graves… Everything blurred together into one great kaleidoscope of thought and grief and reluctant hope and memory and color and love and family and…

…Fernanda came back to herself and looked in awe at the shot glass in her hands.
"What did you see, niña?" asked her mother, as she recorked the bottle and put it on the altar with the others.
"I was Tía Carmela!" exclaimed the little girl in wonder.
"I know, niña. This was her bottle of Recuerdos. Did you see anything special? They say that los muertos can talk to us through them."
"It was her first Día de los Muertos after her family died. She was so sad! But a little happy, too! Why was she happy, Mama?"
"Oh, that is a special memory, niña," smiled her mother. "Sometimes people are sad because someone they love is gone, but happy because they can see them again, like you just did. That's was los Recuerdos are for."
"Will you make tequila like this, too, Mama?"
"Of course, niña, and you will too someday." Her mother scooped her up and swung her around, then carried her out of the room. "Now let's go down to the cemetery and clean Tía Carmela's grave, and watch the kite contest."
It's been a long time since we had a season like the '56 season. That was the heyday. It seemed like we couldn't sell enough stuff, and everyone wore the biggest smile. We had the tourists and business folk funneled in from the new highway, and business could not have been better. Bertha always used to talk about all the kids she got to talk to. We had Iowans, Nebraskans, and even some folks from California. I recall a couple of Canadians on the carousel. When we closed in November, the boss said that next season would be even better.
But it wasn't. When we threw our doors open the next season, the crowds did not flow in. We had a crowd, sure, but not standing room only. We put on our best faces though, and we made sure everyone was entertained. I made sure that everyone had a fair time at the games. Even though it wasn't the hubbub we'd had last year, it was a good season. Boss knew we were disappointed, but he tried to keep our spirits up. "Next year," he said, "Will be the best for sure."
It wasn't. We had nothing. Hardly anyone came by. The city council started to harass us about permits and taxes. Bossman said it would be taken care of, but when the constant stream of civil servants outnumbered the families, it was a bad time. At least we still had a few families then. Even if business only came in a trickle, they still visited. We weren't in the hundreds, but the dozens. When we closed up shop, Bossman said things would be better soon. Times were tough, but we were the Funland Family, and we would pull through.
Things changed in the '59 season. The town seemed to have dried up overnight. The Dixie highway looked like nobody had paved it in months. There were all these people with weapons and equipment. I thought we were being shut down. But Bossman said to keep up "business as usual" so we could have that great season we needed. So the team kept up the happy faces. Bertha did her 2:00 shows, and Aron served up his gumbo pretzel sticks. The people would come in and poke stuff, but it never brought business, or the families.
Sometimes they had kids in with them, sometimes with adults, but never real families. I can't even remember the last time I saw a real, smiling family here. It's become so sterile. Seasons have come and gone, but nobody cares and nothing seems to change. We don't see Bossman anymore. He left a letter on the floor and walked out a while ago. The people took the letter.
It's darker now. The shows don't happen anymore. If you go in the arcade all we have is a cracked skee-ball table and an empty skill crane. Everything else is broken or gone. The others have changed. Everyone seems less happy and more bitter. If a kid came in today, they'd snap him. It's not that any one of them wants to do it. Nobody knows what is going to happen. If Bossman had given us a way home, maybe things would be different. We're here till he says otherwise.
Sometimes… Sometimes I still remember the end of '56. I think we can be there again. The traffic is gonna flow again, and the lifeblood of tourism will flood into this creaky old house. It'll be next year. I can feel it.
“…”
“…”
“Well then. This is … awkward.”
“Indeed. I believe you have the wrong room.”
“Nah, I'm pretty sure this is one of mine.”
“No, I'm quite sure it's mine.”
“…”
“…”
“This isn't going to go anywhere, is it?”
“Most likely. We'll just end up staring at each other until someone gets bored and wanders off.”
“Just like that time back in Beijing, then.”
“Among other times.”
“Oh yeah…there was Beijing, and then there was Rio, and New Orleans and… What one came before New Orleans?”
“Lagos.”
“Yeah, yeah, Lagos. And that one time in Mongolia…”
“Ugh…Don't remind me about Mongolia. Eighty-five hours in a yurt that smelled of yak dung. Granted, I think I minded it more than you, but that's just because you're used to eating your own shit.”
“Hey! Low blow, man, looooooooow blooooooooow.”
“It's true.”
“That doesn't mean you can just use that sort of attitude with me.”
“Ah, you're right, you're right. I apologize. My snark ran away from me. See, it's over there in the corner.”
“Wait is that…”
“Yes. That is a snark. Also, you're a gullible idiot.”
“Least I actually did my job properly.”
“What, you mean Egypt? Yes, you did a fine job in Egypt. Got them really believing in that stuff, didn't you?”
“Better than you did in Europe.”
“But did that actually matter? Is it better to be loved or hated? To know that there is a sympathetic voice at your bedside as your soul leaves, or only to see the impassionate messenger of dead? To be the fierce guardian on the banks of the Styx, or the silence in the night? Which is the truth, and which is the lie? What is it that they say about honeyed tongues and good intentions?
“You know, every time you walk along the footboard like that I think you're going to start singing.”
“I can see it.”
“So…any chance you're going to leave?”
“Not on your eternal essence, mutt.”
“Oh ho? This again? Okay, tuna-breath, I can play your game.”
“I doubt it, Sir I-Roll-In-My-Own-Shit.”
“Nip-huffer”
“Flowerpot-biter.”
“Sociopathic narcolept.”
“Ass-sniffing son-of-a-bitch.”
“Lecherous tom.”
”Chihuahua.”
“You…you… you hobbesian brigand!”
“That barely makes sense, you caterwauling canine cretin!”
"Decorative puffball!"
“Fetching boy!”
There was a soft padding as a fat grey tabby quite conspicuously missing its rear half walked into the room and, with some difficulty, jumped up on the bed. It curled up by the man's head. The dog and the cat looked at it, and then at each other.
“Eh, you know what, let's call this a draw,” the dog said.
“Agreed,” said the cat.
“…”
“…”
“Wanna go get, I dunno, a burger or something? For old time's sake?”
“Might as well. It's been a long time, you old hellhound.”
I love Halloween. It's my favorite time of year, one of the few days I can just go out and mingle with the normal people for an entire night without anyone being the wiser. The pain's not so bad when I can change so often, it's dark with plenty of places to hide and change in secret, and the candy makes up for it.
There's an astronaut over there. I think I'll be an astronaut too now.
It's so easy, not at all like having to make up a shape and hold on to it, keeping it in my head and on my body until it hurts too much to bear. There's so many other people in costumes, I can just copy one of them and then I only need to keep the picture outside from changing.
That little boy is a pirate. I like pirates, I'm going to be a pirate.
Oh, and the candy. I do so love candy, but the rest of the year, it's so hard to get. You need money to buy candy, and even if I could get money, I can't keep it, I always drop it when I change. So I have to steal it, and that's even harder, because even if I get some, I have to drop it too when I change to get away.
A ballerina? That could make a nice shape to be, I'll try that.
Tonight, you don't have to buy or steal candy, they just give it away. They don't like to give you candy more than once, but that's not a problem for me, not if I see someone I want to be and get to a house before they do. I can clean out a house in minutes if I'm lucky, and have a whole bag of candy to go hide somewhere and eat it all up without any shape at all.
Policemen are scary. I don't like them, they like to chase me and shoot at me. But my head hurts, so I'll be a policeman now.
I took a chance once, and went up to a house without a shape. I don't know why I did it, maybe I'd eaten too much candy and gotten silly on the sugar. It never goes right most days, people always scream and run when they see me without a shape, or they try to hurt me and I have to run. But on Halloween, I'm a ghost, or Rorschach (who's Rorschach?), or a swamp monster, or a Shoggoth (don't know what that is either). They aren't scared, they tell me what a great costume I have and give me extra candy.
Should I be a vampire? Or a werewolf? Or a mummy? I see all of them, and I can't decide.
But I can't be myself very often, because I know Mr. Redd is after me. He's always been chasing me, but he can't ever find me. I know how much it makes him angry, though - every since that one night, he knows I spend all of Halloween out and vulnerable, but I wear so many different shapes he never knows what I am and I'm always picking a new one. He get so angry, and it's funny.
Ooh, there's a spy. I see them a lot, even when it's not Halloween. They don't look like spies, they look like normal people, but no one's better than me at seeing someone whose outside is changed. I know they're all friends, because inside they all look similar, and I can see that too. I'll be a spy, and go talk to him. Maybe I can get him to think I'm a spy like he is too. Maybe he'll give me candy.
Lord Hubris sits opposite Lord Wisdom. He is of the type Kahtar, and his symbol is the crown. To his right is the unknowable, which is invisible and colorless to only him, as he refuses to look upon it. To his left is the courageous, which is always a thorn in his side, as he refuses to concern himself with it. Betwixt he and the wise are the needy and unworthy, and he spits upon them with his belly's acid, because he believes he is above them.
The Daevites tell us that he will never die, for their book's end does not include him. Believe or disbelieve them as you wish.
Lord Hubris is of great cunning, it is said that with enough time he could always sway the council of equity into his favour. His strength is like that of a hundred men, but he never need exercise it, for his voice is his greatest weapon. He appeals to the hearts of man, so that in the depth of battle they will switch to his side. The face of Lord Hubris is unassailable, for to look into his eyes and hear his voice sways his enemy's allegiance.
Lord Hubris is deceptive and manipulative, and only Lord Wisdom is perfectly immune to his tricks. Despite that he is always able to be on the side of the betrayer, and that he is always able to persuade the doubts of the knowledgeable, he is unable to change the opinion of the wise.
Lord Hubris is of great endurance, it is said that if he can be cut in twain, his headless half will come alive to struggle with him. When in combat, even as his mortal foes strike blades into his flesh, he shrugs them off and speaks to them. Even when there are those who are particularly stubborn, the swathes of his claws will steal their fates away from them. Lord Hubris boasts that of all Espy that are able, none can beat him in battle, as he will outlast them always.
His opposition to the wise is unending and unyielding, for he believes the Daeva that he will live forever. He believes he can sully Lord Wisdom's reputation such that the other ten members of the council turn against Lord Wisdom, and grant Lord Hubris his victory.
Starel laments.
Lord Hubris has the face of a ghost, but made with stone. It is like the whiteness of salt, but as hard as rock. He does not speak from his mouth, for his words pierce into the minds of those he is speaking to. It is said that the only times Lord Hubris changes his expression are in the memories of those who have spoken to him.
The neck of Lord Hubris is long and sinewy, so that his face may always look into the face of that which he is speaking to. Lord Hubris sheds blasphemies from his skin like sweat, and so to keep his face far from his body muffles the whispers of disgust. His talons are innumerable and smeared with the flesh of those who did not follow him, as he is a wrathful lord. His spit is black blood, and those who touch it are burned by it, and when enraged the drool of Lord Hubris is said to come alive, and form words in the drops it leaves on the ground.
Our Elders Twilight have told us that Lord Hubris has existed always, but has not always been as he is today. In a time long before ours he was instead two things, but have since become one. A visage made of poor-slain, worn by the ancient Tarask.
It was Halloween night at Site 19
A more average night there could not have been
Inside the researchers were hard at work
Studying skips and their interesting quirks
When all of a sudden, out of the blue
The intercoms screamed "It's 682!"
"He's escaped his cell, he's running amok!
We've sent out the guards, and with any luck
They'll find him with almost no damage done
Until then, however, everyone run!"
The sudden announcement caused quite a riot
Afraid they would be the lizards diet
Personnel all ran through the halls quite fast
Hoping that this night would not be their last
Just then the man on the intercom cried,
"173 is loose, everyone hide!"
"We're working hard to find both of these beasts
So there will be no one marked as deceased!
Remember: don't blink, remember to stare
Or else you won't have time for a prayer!"
Now the whole site was scared as can be
No one survives against 173!
To defend themselves, they all grabbed their guns
So they might have a chance to see the sun
Once again the intercoms spoke with fear
"A mass SCP breach has taken place here!
Not just the lizard or the statue that kills
The Old Man is out and spreading his ills!
And so is Able, and he's rather pissed
About all the action that he may have missed!"
"035 is free, it's found a new host
And I'm also free, and making some toast
The clown has escaped from his cell and TV
And so have the 008 infectees!
This is by far the worst breach ever seen!
Oh, and by the way…Happy Halloween!"
"Yes, everything was completely untrue,
It was intended to scare all of you.
This great night is all about treats and tricks
So I thought I'd spook you all for kicks!"
Site Director's Note: It pains me to say
We were just tricked in a cruel sort of way
Somehow a researcher thought it'd be great
To frighten us all to a panicked state
But I'm not upset, because as it were
Now the fool's working with all things Keter!
FIELD REPORT.
ATTACHED: Copies of documents found on the instance's person.
ATTACHMENTS:

DOCUMENT #AF1293-1:
My Dearest Mary,
I hope this letter finds you well. I do not know if it will reach you timely. Infrastructure here in Tukuk is poorly and I have not yet received any of your letters, though I am sure you write. I love you, and you are forever in my prayers.
The construction of the Church is going slowly, and the natives condemn the structure as an affront to their god. They are heretical pagans and do not know of Jesus their Savior. I hope God's grace will fill their ears and they will be swayed.
The sanitation here is terrible. The miasma from the excrement and the swamps poisons the men. Raol was bitten by a native, and he is overcome by an illness causing frothing at the mouth, but I do not fear as I know God watches over me and I am in your prayers.
Yours in Christ, Robert.

DOCUMENT #AF1293-2:
My Dearest Mary,
I doubt that what I write will reach you, but I find solace in the thought of you safe in the Mother Country, safe and ever-faithful. I do hope you do not worry yourself over me; for I am guided by Providence, although I am comforted by the sure knowledge of your prayers.
The persecution in Tukuk is worse than we thought. They have imprisoned me in a cage with metal bars. I am surrounded by vicious rogues, guilty of murder and worse. Not the prisoners, no. Most of the prisoners are deranged, and are incapable of speaking coherently. I fear they were driven mad by captivity. There are hundreds of them, and all they do is scream. But the guards! They are murderers. I hear that they will roast us and eat us. I attempted to converse with them and negotiate my ransom, but instead they threatened and drugged me. I hope I will see you again soon.
Yours faithfully, Robert.

DOCUMENT #AF1293-1:
My Dearest Mary,
I have almost given up all hope. All that drives me is the knowledge that you love me and pray for me. I do not pretend to know our Lord's machinations, but I doubt I will ever see you again. I await meeting God in heaven, and someday you, but not soon, I pray.
I am in the same cage, somewhere in the belly of a huge powered carriage, somewhere in the peninsula. How ludicrous. The native guards dragged me by the collar they had placed around my neck, as if treating an animal, into a room where they exchanged me with other natives. I had hoped they would ransom me, but no. I think they are taking me to my execution. I hope you are safer than I.
Robert.

Item Recovery Log:
An instance of SCP-1845-3 resembling a common raccoon was recovered from the ██████ Animal Shelter, Florida, following the instance demanding he be ransomed by SCP-1845-1, and insisting he was 'spreading the Word of God to the uncivilised Southern natives.' Council employees and volunteers were administered Class-A amnesics. Instance is currently in transit via convoy to Site-19.
SIGNED: Agent Boyles.
In the autumn months, if you walk along the Site-19 grounds and you see an old rusted fence, you might want to see what's on the other side. Over there, the leaves will all crunch underfoot as you walk through the grass. It would seem to be just like any other part of the grounds. But look at the ground. Those stones are the tombs where many fallen men and women lie. D-Class, Researcher, Agent…they're all equal here. So pay a visit to the Site-19 boneyard. Read some tombstones. Maybe even find some old friends.
…
Margaret couldn't help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction as her saw sliced the last sinews of muscle, ridding her of the ugly fake leg some person had swapped for her real leg. Said real leg was lying on the table in front of her, glistening with ebony perfection. The skin was flawless, and the ankle looked like it was young and rich with calcium. The fake one had been gnarled by skin cancer, hideous moles, and wrinkled skin. But as she re-affixed her leg to her hip, she knew that her long foot pain nightmare was over.

Margaret Daniels - She always said that her feet were killing her.

Dr. Vang waited impatiently by the elevator doors, key card in hand. He had some important tests to run, and he wasn't going to be held up by some creaky old equipment that couldn't open the doors on time. After what seemed like seasons, the doors opened. But where was the elevator? Grumbling about how these things don't work the way they used to, Vang stuck his head into the shaft to look around.

Looked up the elevator shaft to see if the car was on the way down - It was.

Agent Ekblad checked his watch. 15 minutes, and still no sign of anomalous atmospheric conditions. The commander was going to want results from tonight's tests - they would be necessary for seizing it away from the Foundation. Juggling a connection to the Insurgency while working on a high level testing facility hadn't been easy, but when he was able to escape with the Insurgents after the gator was captured, it'd all be worth it.

The head of a traitor, eaten by an alligator - Hope to find the body later.

Paul felt a spike of pain shoot up his leg. These damned "heels" were excruciating. It would've been at least bearable if the skin and muscle hadn't been cut away, but Mr. Marshall had decided to do an "experiment". God, his bones were bending. He needed to sit. Get down. the pain in his ankle was beginning to break him he could feel it cracking and it hurt and it hurt and snap. He tumbled forward on broken, useless legs.

Here lies Paul: he was tall, he had a fall, and that was all.

Dmitri felt a bitter cold at the edges of his nostrils. The climb had been arduous, but soon he would be the youngest man to conquer Everest alone. The thoughts of fame and fortune could wait: he needed to actually reach the peak. As he dug his pick into a rock, he heard something. Who was that? How had he gotten up here…

His foot did slip and he did fall.
Help! He cried.
And that was all.
I was feeling more down than usual when I borrowed that book. I must have been, otherwise I probably would have passed it by. But then again I guess I really wasn't expecting her to leave the way she did, even though it was probably for the best, and I wasn't hoping for too much anyway, and I was tired of writing depressing poetry. And as a poet, I find I can seek solace in the words of others when my own dwell too much in sadness.
Oh, sorry. You want to know more about the book?
Well, in appearance it wasn't that special. Something about it seemed interesting though. It—drew me, to say the least. I can't say I'd ever seen it before. It was just sitting on top of a shelf in the Poetry section, and I was somewhat irritated by how dejectedly it seemed to be lying there by itself… Bound in faded leather with flaking gold leaf, it seemed like something that would be more at home at a museum than a library.
It was a pretty good book. Short and sweet, even though it was sad. I don't quite remember it—not quite minimalist, not quite purple prose, but somehow the tone captured my mood completely and made me feel better. The plot was incredibly, almost ridiculously close to the events that had happened to me recently. The tension, the unknowing, the wondering, the end.
Some others must have borrowed the book as well, since I kept finding notes or the like scribbled into the margins. It didn't occur to me until later that they all seemed to rhyme with each other. One went:
I miss you more than ever
When I look into the sky.
Most of them were wistful, others were more disheartening. Sort of like:
I love you more than ever
So why did you pass me by?
The book was old enough to still have a little card taped in with a list of people who'd borrowed it, decades and decades ago. I was surprised and intrigued when I saw the name of a poet I'd admired and looked up to, and I think I found the two lines he wrote, they were:
I seek you more than ever
That's why I tried to fly.
He had committed suicide by jumping off a building.
I thought maybe the book had belonged to him, but it was a little weird because all of the verses were written in different handwriting. But I guess a lot of different people have read this book, because near the end there was the one that went:
I hate you more than ever
I'm so glad I said goodbye.
…and also there was the rather disconcerting one that said:
I love you more than ever
So I had to see you die.
I don't really remember any others. And like I said, the book was pretty short.
Me? Yes, I did add my own verse. It went something like:
I miss you more than ever
And I still can't fathom why.
I haven't been able to write anything since, but I've felt amazing. Hardly any negative thoughts or loneliness clouding my mind anymore. Sure, inspiration has been a little slow coming, but at this moment I think I'd prefer the nothingness. It's peaceful, in a way.
No, I can't say I remember for sure what the author's name was. I vaguely recall it being “I. L. Dean” or something strange like that.
One afternoon, at a fashionable clubhouse belonging to Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd.
"Look what I made!"
"It's lovely, sir. You are truly gifted. May I ask what it is?"
"I made it using the kit that I bought from you guys last year, and the tools that you sold to my friend a few years back before his accident! And the wood came from trees on that secret island in the secret lake that I had to rent the map from you guys for, and—"
"Fascinating, sir. But… what is it?"
"It's a reverse mirror voodoo puppet!"
"I'm sorry, sir, a what?"
"Reverse mirror voodoo doll stick puppet!"
"A mirror voodoo—"
"REVERSE mirror!"
"But, sir, a mirror already… yes, sir. A reverse mirror voodoo doll stick puppet. Very impressive. You are a true artist."
"Yeah! So what'll you give me for it?"
"… I beg your pardon?"
"I'm selling it to you! What'll you give me for it!"
"I, uh, sir, I… I'm not authorized to make purchases on behalf of my employer, sir. I'll need to speak to my supervisor."
"Sure, you do that. This little baby oughta go for eight, maybe nine million?"
"Uh. Sir, I… please realize that the prices for which we sell items are not the prices we pay for items, and— "
"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha. So… eighty, ninety grand?"
"Sir, really, I'm not authorized to make purchases on behalf of— sir, what does the reverse mirror voodoo doll stick puppet even do?"
"Pick it up."
"Uh…"
"No, take it out of the towel. Let it touch your skin!"
"Sir, I am a client interaction representative, not a test subject. If you wish to purchase a human test subject for demonstration purposes, that can be arranged as a separate transaction."

Eleven years later
"Uh, yeah, hi, I was wondering… uh… did… did anyone bid on my puppet this time?"
"As a matter of fact, sir, they didn't even get the chance!"
"…what?"
"Before the auction could even start, the SCP Foundation raided the site, and they stole your puppet!"
"… REALLY?!?!?"
As the bullet inched closer to his head, he took a moment to consider some things.
The first was just how lovely his first real girlfriend had been. She had been one of those artistic types who had never really managed to make the vision in her mind match the final product. She had a tendency to call up fantastically beautiful scenes and work them with the paints, always disappointed when the reality didn't match her fantasy. He had helped her, of course, guided her hand silently, given her a soft, gentle kiss when she cried at the beauty of the thing she had created.
He reflected for a moment on their child, who had been stillborn. She blamed herself for it, but he knew the truth of the matter—that some things need to be balanced, that a beautiful birth of art had taken a beautiful birth of child—and while he never said it, she could tell. His temperament, his eyes when he looked at her, the painful distance between them that seemed to get further and further until it became physical instead of emotion, and she had left him forever.
He remembered the first time he met her, their high school year, when he'd first discovered some things about himself, about how he looked at the world, and how much he wanted her. She'd been so shallow. So weak in mind and body. It had been easy to take her, mold her, help her to grow as she should have. She appreciated it, of course. He made sure she did. Though it made her leaving all the more painful.
He recalled the scent of her hair. That was his favorite memory.
As his forehead was pierced, his thoughts broke, pain shattering his thought process as he felt the skin break, the bone buckle and shatter, slivers flying inward and out. He felt the heat of the bullet as its force bore it into the fleshy matter of his brain, eyes widening as he reached for his memories. No, he thought.
But by then, it didn't matter.

Termination Report
Date: █/██/██
Subject: KTE-3410-Clockwork-Green
3410 terminated by small arms fire at close range, body removed and incinerated as per standard procedures. Guess the fucker can't stop bullets fast enough if you're in his face, but I can't do anything about the bullet now.
- M.E.
The following message was intercepted by a Foundation Special Intelligence Team in September of 2012. The original source has yet to be identified.
To my Brothers and Sisters:
Greetings, and the peace of God be with all of you.
I have heard stories of disarray in our midst of late, and they have troubled me. This organization was meant to be a work of unity between our faiths, and yet we have begun falling back upon our old prejudices and ancient rivalries. Already we descend back into darkness and fear and fanaticism, running from the light of unifying truth.
I hear of brothers fighting against brothers, of sabotage and lies, and worse, a brother sent to a pointless death in the hands of a group that is not even our enemy. Have we already stooped so low to become like the followers of the Machine, to spray our innards at the slightest provocation in so-called service to God? Am I to believe that we are no better than the fanatics?
This madness cannot be allowed to continue.
A fractured organization is no organization at all: rather, it is a horde of competing factions, too busy trying to wring the neck of their brothers to notice the enemy at their door. This cannot be allowed to continue as it has for these many long centuries. We must be strong, stronger than we have ever been. Was that not why we unified? To become stronger by aiding each other?
The time for division is past. We are brothers and sisters in faith, followers and servants of the same God. Why then do we fight amongst ourselves? Do you hold on to your old ways so tightly? Are you afraid to let go? In the desert, we were as children, and we spoke as children, and so God spoke to us in words that children knew, in ways that children could understand. Now, we have grown, and we see the world through older eyes. We are prepared for the truths of adulthood.
We three children of Abraham were given the truth of God, but it was given to us each in our different way. For each of us it has been worn and wearied by ages and the fleeting memories of man. It has been stained by the powerful and the corrupt, who desire reinforcement of their own beliefs rather than the knowledge of the truth that those beliefs sprung from. Through these relics, we may not simply protect and keep them in due reverence and weaken dangerous beliefs, we may also discover that truth that we have lost. It should not be that one man may discover an item or a passage that supports his preferred way of thinking, and then he discards the rest. Instead, all relics that may be truly known as divine or related to the divine, even those that are challenging to our beliefs, must be considered.
What we will discover will test us, and many of our number will retreat to the comfort of what we have been told that we know. Those who persevere will be shaken, broken, and reborn in glory.
God spoke to humanity in the desert, and just now we are able to piece together His words.
I hope that this message reaches wise ears, and if it does not, may it at least be the ears of an honest fool.
Sir or Sirs:
When I was five, I was in a theatre fire. A real one, not some hackneyed joke played up for laughs by idiotic teenagers. Upon reflection, I think it was utterly mad that there would actually be a fire—such a clichéd concept, isn't it?—but this was back when smoking was allowed in theatres, so I suppose it couldn't have been that rare.
Some other child, probably not much older than me, screamed that there was a fire, and it was one of those terrifying old movies, something by Murnau, so all the patrons were already absurdly tense. All the children started screaming together in unison. My mother broke my arm dragging me out of the theatre, and four people were stomped to death fighting to get out. That's when I realized how dangerous it was.
Not the fire, of course. No one died from it. People died from the panic. From the other idiots. Trampled to death and unable to defend themselves from the feet of everyone coming down on their face or neck or chest. One of them was another child. Sometimes, I like to think that was the one who warned everyone. A touch morbid, but I know you'll not judge me. How absolutely perfect would that be? A voice that called out to save everyone, crushed to death by the feet of those he would help. It's so wonderfully bittersweet. Nigh unto sublime, but more impeccable than that. Supernal in its delightful tragedy.
That was when I realized it. Ideas. What could be more deadly? The idea of the fire, or the actual fire? What's worse: the thought of grinding a file over your teeth, or actually doing it? How much worse is the idea of a needle sliding into your eye and then jerking out… or someone actually doing it to you? Can a shark be any worse than the idea of one? The absence of one? But then, I'm preaching to the proverbial choir, I believe.
Brilliantly done. I must admit, at first I was skeptical of your vision, but now, I can see the sort of concepts you were hoping to achieve. I hope that you will continue to work like this in the future, building these anti-concepts into things much more beautiful than their terrestrial origins. Of course, we'll supply the funds for your next project. We are, after all, great patrons of the arts, and these pieces are more elegant than anything we've received in the past.
With warm admiration for your craft,
J. Carter, ESQ.
CEO Marshall, Carter, and Dark, ltd.
"An ordnance technician at a dead run outranks everybody." -Unknown
Everything was going swimmingly. His research team had finally gotten authorization to use 914 for ordnance testing. Set to "Fine" and "Very Fine", agents were processed and tested for the stated aim of equipping Nu-7 with more capable means of containing or neutralizing hostile Keters. His team worked efficiently, and without succumbing to the temptation to abuse it for their own gain. He smiled and a plan was hatched.
The large man walked up to the machine amidst research staff engaged in their work and emptied a small canvas bag on the in side and set 914 into motion. Moments later, he quietly gathered the product on the other side of the infernal device and left without fanfare.

[Interviewer] What did you put through 914?

Returning to an isolated laboratory at the far end of a hallway and closing, but not locking, the armored blast door behind him, he prepared a large standing erection of glassware, tubing, burners and unidentifiable components off to one side. Emptying the pouch into a ball mill, he set it to pulverize the contents and waited patiently for it to finish. In the meantime, he finished filling out the requisition form for another batch of dicyanoacetylene.
The noise stopped with a soft "ding", and he rose from his desk, pouring the contents into a series of hoppers on the nightmare of glassware in the corner and opened a series of valves with hands shaking with anticipation and excitement.

[Dr. John Williamson] Beans.
[Interviewer] Beans?
[Dr. Williamson] Yes.

Slowly a ceramic collection vessel on the end massive system filled with a thick, black liquid that filled the room with a characteristic and very familiar odor, albeit one considerably stronger than he'd known. A soft smile again grew on his worn face as he closed the stopcock and lifted the collection vessel by its handle. The reservoir on the assembly continued to fill with the thick, oily black liquid as he turned to walk back to his desk, unaware of the filling reservoir that his labcoat had snagged on a handle. He dared a sip of the liquid, bringing the mug up to his lips with trembling hands. It was marvelous. Better than anything he'd produced yet. Perfection.
On his way to his desk, out of the corner of his eye Dr. Williamson saw his masterwork begin to tilt, the liquid sloshing in the almost full reservoir. Tilt and begin to fall impossibly slowly. Time seemed to drag on.
He ran for the door.
In the hallway, staff seemed to be moving in slow motion as he ran. He was almost to the end of the hallway when he heard the crash and deafening low order blast.

[Dr. Williamson] Coffee beans.
I. Praefatio
These well-lit rooms and stainless halls
Are host to choruses of fear
Behind each door a nightmare calls
Contained by persons without peer
Another test requires my aid
I pass the doors and darkened stairs
I've felt the terror, still I've stayed
I've let go of my woes and cares.
I should have left, and just moved on
They cautioned me: “Don't linger, please.”
And still I feel I'm somehow drawn—
So strange are these anomalies.
These horrors spin their selfsame song
Have I been dreaming all along?
II. Persisto
Dark tales of old and stories grim
Horrors unsheathed, without respite
Long needles, amputated limbs
Are not rare sights within these sites.
Body bags, festering rot
Things looked upon with such disgrace
Perhaps it's best to question not
How to stay sane within this place.
This Foundation, these personnel
With minds so sharp and nerves of steel
Track the nightmares where they dwell
And ponder what is truly real.
Don't ask them of the better days
Their laughter wipes the dreams away.
III. Papilio
You are of trance and mysteries
Oh, Illusory Butterflies
I wonder of your memories
Please weave your wings and show me lies.
Oh Five five three, a jewel are you
Whether adult or small larva
You are a masterpiece, it's true
Of calcite, quartz, and silica.
Poor Weather Bug, you met your end
No more the air will you explore
No air pressure will your wings rend
May you sleep softly evermore.
Illusions, weather, crystal gleams
Your beauty is the stuff of dreams.
On ██/██/████, SCP-682 broke containment and proceeded to escape to Research Unit-█, which is the primary unit used to receive communications from SCP-1548. SCP-682 proceeded to kill all personnel in the area and began to use communication gear to send messages in Morse code to SCP-1548. The messages sent by SCP-682 and responses by SCP-1548 are recorded here.Thought you'd be more than a big toothy snout. Motherfucker, I don't leave the Foundation D-class to spare!Don't you dare try to match my damn rhymes. 
Signals from space, that's what I send,
I fill 05 with a sense of dread!
Crab Galaxy they call me, that's what they say, 
Hell, the only crabs are in yo' Mother's puss-ay!
To me, you're a gecko, that's all you are, 
Now excuse me while I go and put out your star!Your hate ain't nothing, just empty space shit.
I can't be killed, I'm the bane of the Foundation, 
You're so old, you've been around since creation!
Full of hot air, you're just empty threats!
I use force to back up my epithets!
You're from this dimension, for me that ain't so,
I'm beyond this universe, give it up mofo!I'm in their nightmares while they slumber!
The truest of true, the most dangerous here, 
It's me, not you, who deserves the fear!
Voids in my wake, rage in my mind, 
When I'm done with Earth, they'll be nothing left to find!
Who the fuck you are, trying to outdo me, 
I'm a motherfucking galaxy!
Worlds I devour, bitch, I've beaten you, 
The true danger's me, not goddamn 682!I change myself to whatever fits. 
Dozens, hundreds, thousands I've killed, 
Hell, my hunger still isn't filled!
Life is my enemy, all living must die, 
You ever faced me, you know you would cry, 
I change, I adapt, I'm the biggest badass, 
For you, three feet a year is fast! 
I'm 682, killer of men, 
I give wounds no doctor can mend. 
I can tell right now, I've got you fuming, 
Now for those disgusting humans. 
Following the final transmission, SCP-682 killed ██ security personnel before being subdued. SCP-1548's transmissions since have included several requests for a "rematch".