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SCP-XXXX: TITLE
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BetterMyButter
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SCP-XXXX Iteration 1 (9/1/09)
3/XXXX LEVEL 3/XXXX
CLASSIFIED
| Assigned Site |
Site Director |
Research Head |
Assigned MTF/TRT |
| Armed Response Site 161 |
Dr. Simara Yuuzarii |
Dr. Jack Nicoles |
MTF Epsilon-9 "Fire Eaters"
TRT-84 (M/A/B) |
Special Containment Procedures: Foundation Webcrawlers ψ-0847 and γ-1934 are to regularly screen Foundation-indexed websites for signs of SCP-XXXX presence. Any websites with detected SCP-XXXX instances are to be screened, the host IP tracked, and the website taken down. Any civilian reporting, documentation, or written record of SCP-XXXX-3 birthing events are to be suppressed and removed according to standard Veil protocol after analysis.
SCP-XXXX-3 instances are to be neutralized on-sight, and the remains incinerated. Ashes are to be disposed of.
SCP-XXXX-2 instances are to undergo a cesarean section to extract and terminate the SCP-XXXX-3 entity. SCP-XXXX-2 instances are then to be sterilized and amnesticized with Class-G amnestics and reconditioned by medical personnel.
Any reports or information regarding SCP-XXXX is to be delivered to the head of the SCP-XXXX project, currently Senior Researcher Jack Nicoles.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a file found throughout the internet at large. Instances of SCP-XXXX have a variety of file names but are generally created as an executable file. Titles vary depending on the SCP-XXXX-1 instance. These files are normally found on a website (hereafter referred to as SCP-XXXX-1) generated by unknown means.
SCP-XXXX-1 is the designation for websites created for the purposes of spreading SCP-XXXX. These websites are typically in the format of a web-log (commonly referred to as a "blog") hosted on a wide variety of platforms, but most tend to be in a text version, regularly updated with advice, stories, or answers to questions sent in by viewers of the blog. While they appear non-anomalous, it is believed that the SCP-XXXX-1 instances are capable of memetic attraction of certain audiences, while others suggest that it is not an anomalous effect but simply the design of the SCP-XXXX-1 instance. Regardless, the SCP-XXXX-1 instances are stylized as a "support blog" for those suffering from a wide variety of conditions, mostly ones that cause sterility or incapability of reproduction/childbirth in general. The SCP-XXXX-1 instance will give advice to those affected by these conditions, and while they tend to offer a wide variety of means, after a certain period they begin to recommend "using" SCP-XXXX as a "cure" to their conditions. This stage tends to occur after about three to five months after the creation of the SCP-XXXX-1 instance. SCP-XXXX-1 instances are typically hosted on a computer infected with SCP-XXXX, without the knowledge of SCP-XXXX-2.
SCP-XXXX-2 is the designation for those who have downloaded the SCP-XXXX file and have been deemed by the SCP as the "owner" of the host computer. By what process SCP-XXXX determines the "owner" of the computer is unknown, but analysis suggests the victim will be the one using the computer at the time of the download, although exceptions exist. SCP-XXXX-2 will be "infected" by SCP-XXXX, and the specific symptoms vary by biological sex. Extensive testing has determined that SCP-XXXX will not affect non-humans. Male instances will be, over the course of several months (although the rate of repair varies between subjects and ailments), 'healed' of a wide variety of diseases, illnesses, and conditions that cause infertility or general inability to reproduce. Their semen, however, will inseminate an instance of SCP-XXXX-3 in a biologically female partner, resulting in them also being classified as an instance of SCP-XXXX-2. In a female instance, they will also undergo a similar healing process, albeit much quicker, being fully capable of carrying a pregnancy to full term within 2-4 weeks. However, whenever they are inseminated in any capacity by any viable biological male, the resulting fetus will invariably be an instance of SCP-XXXX-3. Most SCP-XXXX-2 instances experience a memetic compulsion to engage in reproduction for the purposes of insemination.
Beyond this point, whether or not the carrier was infected by SCP-XXXX is irrelevant. The fetus will develop as a biologically standard human, and the gender of the child will vary- the odds of either biological sex do not seem to change from a typical pregnancy. While SCP-XXXX-2 instances often report feeling bursts of pain, drowsiness, or even narcolepsy, the pregnancy is otherwise non-anomalous.
Eventually, as the pregnancy reaches the final stage, the child will exit the vagina as in a typical birth. However, as it exits, it will undergo sudden, rapid, anomalous growth. The final stage of the entity upon "birth" is a living, animate composite of several artificial and biological materials, composed of metallic plates, computer boards, human flesh, skin, and bone. The entity is often heavily mutilated. Instances have been recorded to have grown multiple arms, legs, and heads on a single body. Birthing events typically cause severe electronic interference, lasting approximately 10 to 30 minutes after birth.
The SCP-XXXX-3 instance is invariably hostile. Immediate neutralization will be required. Anomalous characteristics have been noted in the ashes produced via incineration, but investigation is still ongoing.
Addendum 1: Autopsy
SCP-XXXX-3 AUTOPSY REPORT
Security camera of Site [REDACTED] Medical Analysis Bay 3 pans to a large, semi-organic, burnt cadaver situated chest-up atop a surgical table. The chest cavity is opened. Doctor Langford stands a short distance away from the table, looking towards the camera. An unnamed individual stands next to the body.
Doctor Langford: Are we starting? pauses Good, good.
Doctor Langford walks towards the table. A medical penlight in his hand points towards the cadaver.
Doctor Langford: This is an instance of SCP-XXXX dash, uh, three. It's one of the more aggressive anomalies we've discovered as of late. This one in particular killed 3 TRT officers before they torched it. But blood loss was what did it in. This one is at least…oh, 2-ish meters from the tailbone, to the primary head over here. Langford directs the penlight towards the largest head at the "front" of the body. Several smaller heads split off along the elongated collarbone, wires and cables interlinking them.
Doctor Langford: The fastest-growing part of these things is the bone. You can tell here how warped the faces are, and along the shoulder blades, we see the skin is drawn taut. Here- Doctor Langford shines the penlight down the chest cavity. The light lands on the numerous, malformed ribs, with some dark reflective patches on them. -some of the bone is actually a sort of carbon composite. Quite durable, and the material spreads like a sort of cancer along the ribcage. I believe that as it grew older, it would only continue to grow and develop- the longest we've allowed these things to live is about a week before we discovered where it was hiding. But this one lasted for maybe 5 or so days. They only get harder to kill the longer they stay alive. Surprisingly, all of these limbs that fully formed before death are all functional, down to the digits. Most of the arms flail about, but they're fully capable of manipulation. Heads are different, in that only one actually directs the body- that would be the biggest one here. These smaller ones don't really serve a purpose.
Pause. Langford looks at unnamed individual, then back at camera.
Doctor Langford: Right. This one walked on both its arms and legs, but when engaged with the TRT it rose onto its legs. This is biologically impossible- it's simply too heavy in order to lift itself up in such a way without breaking everything beneath the waist, but I've learned to disregard basic physics after my employment here.
Addendum 2: SCP-XXXX Websweeper Search Parameters:
Content Index Keyword Tokens:
Hold
Mother
Father
Adore
Parenting
Guide
Help
Children
Childbirth
Infertility
Failure
[REDACTED]
[REDACTED]
Pelvic,Inflammatory,Disease
Polycystic,Ovary,Syndrome
[REDACTED]
Pelvic,Tuberculosis
NOTICE FROM THE RAISA OFFICE OF CLASSIFICATION
Over the course of 5 years, all detected instances of SCP-XXXX-1 have been taken down. All living SCP-XXXX-2 instances have been sterilized, and SCP-XXXX-3 instances neutralized. After the removal of the last SCP-XXXX-1 instance, no SCP-XXXX activity has been detected by webcrawlers. Given the current status of SCP-XXXX, it will be reclassified as Neutralized pending approval from RAISA personnel.
If you have any questions regarding its status, please contact the Records and Information Security Administration (RAISA).
butter here. this would be better if it was instead a log of a major outbreak in a town instead of a foundation site.
Containment Breach Report 29/1/18 (Mon) 06:45:03
Status: PYRRHIC
LRC: 981/B/BLUE
Storage Area 981 is a site for storage of low-risk SCPs and anomalous items en masse. Staff of 714.
3 Months Prior To Breach: MEDICAL STAFF RECORD HIGH NUMBERS OF PREGNANT STAFF ON SITE.
2 Weeks Prior To Breach: SITE MEDICAL DIRECTOR NOTED 9 PREGNANT STAFF REPORTED TO MEDICAL BAY OVER THE COURSE OF A WEEK CLAIMING TO SUFFER FROM SUDDEN SPIKES OF PAIN AND DROWSINESS. INITIALLY DISMISSED.
4 Days Prior To Breach: SITE MEDICAL DIRECTOR NOTED UPWARDS OF 21 PREGNANT STAFF REPORTED TO MEDICAL BAY CLAIMING TO SUFFER FROM SUDDEN SPIKES OF PAIN AND NARCOLEPSY. MEDICAL DIRECTOR ANALYSIS PERFORMED. NO ANOMALIES DETECTED.
3 Days Prior To Breach: SITE MEDICAL DIRECTOR REQUESTED QUARANTINE IN RESPONSE TO SUSPECTED DISEASE. REQUEST DENIED BY SITE DIRECTOR.
2 Days Prior To Breach: SITE MEDICAL DIRECTOR CONDUCTS INVASIVE ANALYSIS OF AFFECTED STAFF MEMBER. NOTED PRESENCE OF FOREIGN UNKNOWN ORGANISM WITHIN WOMB.
0029 Hours: SITE DIRECTOR ESTABLISHES QUARANTINE. SITE DIRECTOR UNRESPONSIVE.
0104 Hours: SITE DIRECTOR REQUESTS EMERGENCY MEDICAL RESPONSE TEAM. REQUEST RECOGNIZED BY OFFICE OF RESPONSE OVERSEER.
0139 Hours: SITE DIRECTOR REQUESTS EMERGENCY MEDICAL RESPONSE TEAM. REQUEST RECOGNIZED BY OFFICE OF RESPONSE OVERSEER.
0219 Hours: SITE DIRECTOR REQUESTS EMERGENCY MEDICAL RESPONSE TEAM. REQUEST RECOGNIZED BY OFFICE OF RESPONSE OVERSEER.
0224 Hours: MEDICAL RESPONSE TEAM OF 2 Medical Response Officers, 2 Armed Response Officers DISPATCHED TO STORAGE AREA 981.
0409 Hours: MEDICAL RESPONSE TEAM ARRIVES.
0449 Hours: LRC 981/A/BLUE-GREEN SENT BY MEDICAL RESPONSE TEAM: Hostile organisms breached body of staff, estimated to be upwards of 26-ish of these instances. Medical Director Hall enacted AR-300. Was moderately effective. We cannot reach the Site Director, so we cannot authorize an ARI more effective than this. Requesting an armed MTF.
0545 Hours: MTF EPSILON-11 ARRIVES AT SITE.
0846 Hours: MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM EPSILON-11: Organisms neutralized.
1024 Hours: MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM EPSILON-11:Containment reestablished. Biohazard and repair crews dispatched, repairs underway.
END LOG
Several other sites reported similar entities emerging from those in a relationship with staff stationed at Storage Area 981. Given the far lower amounts of SCP-XXXX-3 instances, on-site staff were able to eliminate the hostile entities.
All staff stationed at Area 981 before 5/5/17 are to be sterilized.
SCP-XXXX RESEARCH TEAM UPDATE
Further analysis reveals that the SCP-XXXX file saved on the isolated server at Site 981 recognized all staff stationed there as the owner, therefore making them SCP-XXXX-2 instances- this is why staff assigned to the site after the download, including myself, were not also infected. Interestingly, given the impossibility of all impregnated staff having been inseminated at the same time even with SCP-XXXX's anomalous compulsion, it seems as though the SCP-XXXX-3 instances coordinated their own "births".
However- several of the entities survived, albeit incapacitated. I would like to preserve them for study. We haven't let any live longer than a couple of days at most, and I'm curious just how intelligent they actually are.
-Medical Director Hall
NOTICE FROM THE OFFICE OF THE O5 COUNCIL
Request authorized.
Congratulations on the promotion, Site Director Hall.
|
O5-7
Foundation Overseer
2018/03/05 |
hee hoo why do america use imperial system? cognitohazard
abraxas arms sarkic
the honorable reindeer-folk of adi-um, ancient sarkic culture that fought the Daeva
the people who comb through potentially anomalous writings, digital and written. have implants and treatments to prevent cognitohazards from affecting them
scp 5961 rewrite (this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMLlDBXtmX0&feature=youtu.be): those who are going to see it become obsessed with it all their lives, unsure of what it is but try to find it by any means possible- the question of free will. it's a giant walking squid thing that resides in a small town, described as "impossibly beautiful", and either makes you go nuts or kills you i guess. but one random guy is due to see it, and spends his life in search of it. he finds the town. hears the stories- he knows if he sees it he'll go nuts. he wants to test it, and by extension his own free will. He hears of 4 little girls raving about an "elf king", but they don't know where it is. he eventually realizes he is the one who will send them to it to test, and the horror of what he is going to do drives him to the point where he does send them in, ie the knowledge he will go nuts drives him nuts. this event and the sudden string of disappearances brings a foundation agent to investigate and eventually the creature is trapped by the Foundation via SCRAMBLE gear. one researcher, who has studied aquatic and cognitohazardous anomalies since she was recruited (described as being perfect for the job) and always had a fascination with aquatic life is brought to study it. she realizes she is obsessive over it and has been obsessing over it her whole life- this led to her fascination with aquatic life and the human brain, her career in psychology even led to her recruitment into the Foundation, and she questions everything- did she gain these traits because of the squid, or did she find the squid because of the traits? is she- all that she is- predetermined by this one event? she leaves. she goes to see the squid. O5 decide to expunge all info related to the anomaly and make sure it is never heard of again. one O5 regrets it cannot be studied further- they say "anomalies like this have always fascinated me".
basically? factory makes demon robots en masse. these robots are demon-powered. originally an anderson project that escaped, took over a factory, directed by a single demon. opened a gate to hell, harvests resources from it to produce more robots, kidnaps locals, etc. fought by the fire skeletons. maybe the robots find God?
uh ritual that makes people into skeletons that have thaumaturgic abilities and can manipulate fires, by igniting themselves on fire. foundation finds 5 of these burning, skeletal humanoids throughout Eastern Europe, fighting several anomalies with severe collateral damage and threatens the veil. most of these anomalies are religious in nature, like demons or 610. tries to contain them. fails. tracks them to this ancient cave. 5 altars. the 5 instances are contained this way in the 50s, but as anomalies increase, the Foundation realizes it needs them again. The 5 entities speak no known language, pardon one, a former Roman soldier, who speaks Latin. they find how to do the ritual to "pass the torch" to new members. 5 are selected/volunteer. they take up the mantle. become an MTF. cybernetically modified. their stories are recorded on the cave walls. these 5 are:
- "Fox"- soldier from the age of 16. recruited by foundation at 32. served in the foundation for 80 years, became crippled. member of nine-tailed fox for 50 of those years. phrase uttered by former instance: "This one served and suffered, but unlike the others, they did not falter- as an adherent to the sword, only the sword could stop them. all that remains is the soul, and even that they give to us now. your service will be remembered for eternity."
- "Sister Christian" or just "Sister"- Tactical Theology member, former GOC soldier. recruited by GOC after 610 killed her village, then went to the foundation after her squad was wiped, leaving her broken. her faith never wavered. phrase uttered by former instance: "Many balk in terror in the face of insurmountable agony. But not this one. Your loyalty will be remembered for eternity."
- "Wizard"- Thaumaturge. Horrifically scarred performing a Working to save the personnel of a site from daemonic incursion. left behind for 2 weeks, hiding from daemons and anomalies against all odds. served as a member of a tactical response team for 2 decades, prevented the deaths of countless personnel several times, but left themselves damaged. phrase uttered by former instance: "Left to rot in the pit of despair that many enter, that few survive- and fewer still escape. You refused death's embrace, and in turn denied the deaths of your comrades- your honor will be remembered for all eternity."
- then one for "dedication" and "sacrifice"
pilot of advanced foundation aircraft. recruited at 16 b/c some disaster idk. cockpit is a big sphere, he sit in chair wires go in head. think star wars prequel ships. Nose-mounted gun has several barrels, charges for a second before firing a burst of magnetically launched steel rods at incredible speeds. Also, the ship is part metal and part flesh, as the regenerating crocodile flesh is integrated into it. Nerves run throughout it, connecting to the fetus that is the twin of the pilot in their orb.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coilgun#Ferromagnetic_projectiles
She grabbed her helmet. Lifting the somewhat heavy object over her head, she slowly lowered it, before twisting it clockwise, the heavy "click" sounding before the low hiss emanated from all directions.
She dwelled on the rising sun as she walked to the ship- she had ADHD, and having triple processing thanks to her bionic and thaumaturgic augmentation allowed her to set-up her suit while walking, run diagnostics, and remember the beautiful orange hues practically burned into her vision that she has seen every day for the past 5 years of her life.
She stared at the passing researchers as they walked by. They didn't look back. They talked amongst themselves, their distinct quirks and personalities shining despite their almost uniform appearance- well, uniform to her. They had a wide variety of colors in their hair and eyes, their faces all separate from the next. Traits she couldn't have. She had no bizarre tick, no true uniqueness. She wasn't allowed. She couldn't think of a funny quip to save her life, and didn't have a comedic monotone voice either. One researcher gave a passing glance to the pilot. She had glossy black hairr, the tips colored a bright pink. She had glasses, heterochromia, and a distinctly upbeat personality. The last one was predicted by the pilot based on observation. She had only seen her in passing, but almost every aspect of the researcher was memorized. It was a combination of her own hyperactive mind and the 2 computers running in the back of her head. But maybe it was obsession. She didn't know. The researcher was, she assumed, rather stunning, but that was pure conjecture. All of this the pilot thought while priming her cufflink implants and feeding a nutrient tube into a port on her neck, the pipe running pure protein, carbohydrates, vitamins, and other necessary nutrition into her stomach before giving a chunk sound like one would hear from a gas nozzle when it had filling a tank to capacity. She didn't really remember the sound perfectly- it wasn't something she was inclined to remember, and it was 12 years ago, before she had received her memory drive implant and was "recruited" by the Foundation. Funny. The researcher was probably recruited after she found some old occult book, did too well in math and calculated a bear, or was just really good at whatever college she went to. The pilot was recruited after she got her legs ripped off by a massive gator and kidnapped by the GOC.
"They're all the same." It was an amalgamation of sound-bites from various sources that made a voice that was familiar but distinctly inhuman. It was Mark, who was little more than the suit he wore. The team probably could make some sort of derisive-but-funny nickname off of that, or his voice, but they were things all of them shared.
She looked out through the cameras at the landscape. Flat, green terrain in all directions, beautiful forest dotted across it. It was beautiful, even through her cameras. She admired it for a moment before "rotating" through all the filters, her vision jerking counterclockwise as she switched from thermal vision, to night vision, then to thaumaturgic tracking, to the VERITAS system, before switching back to standard view. In the corner of her "eyes", she could see that her HUD listed the cognitohazard filters as FULLY OPERATIONAL. She raised herself up, the two propellers on the sides lifting the gunship towards the sky, her mind controlling it like any muscle. It was always a surreal experience- the line between her own body and that of her gunship became thinner every time she used it. More often than not, the machine overpowered her own mind (as she reasoned), as protocol and programming made her actions almost unconscious.
The camera gave off a sort of pulse- at least, that is how the computer showed it to the pilot.
She disconnected from the ship as much as she could- at the very least, the wires weren't plugged into her brain, although a third of her brain was still operating the machine in tandem with her sister. She unzipped the pouch on her left leg and pulled out her book. (uuuh this: http://www.potw.org/archive/potw29.html)
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land)
I love his later works.
I do, too.
Thanks for using a physical book. I like the texture- or, at least, you like the texture and so I do when I get th- yeah.
Yeah.
uuuuh Veritas system
she goes on a road trip with her i guess
uuuh they're in a mostly underground facility near the everglades.
lots of obscure SCPs.
snake that predicts the future based on what it does, eats, moves. Eventually somone just thinks its a regular snake so they just stop monitoring it and then something bad happens so they recontain it. Left to the reader to decide.
mother of gators. massive female corpse beneath a lake-within-a-lake, her lower body is integrated with the crevices of a rock (think Tomie in the lake from Junji Ito). The gators tear their way out from her womb and the Foundation has to send in the Swamp Things to exterminate the incredibly hostile, anomalously large, gators. The TRT (Tactical Response Team) "Swamp Things" and Area-A84 was made in a treaty with the GOC over Florida, which both groups had an interest in after a massive Sarkic uprising almost destroyed the state in the late 20th century (1960s-ish?). Lots of backwater Sarkic cults, and Mekhanite churches in the cities. Maybe Florida is an anomalous hotbed idk
it's called the compact maybe? like this area is what keeps the two organizations from opposing each other.
trying to destroy her only made a swarm of underdeveloped gators swarm the nearby area. Fully destroying her would be very difficult but since the gators also are flawed type reds, she is a very valuable research asset, as several combat suits integrate some parts of the gators into the armor to give it limited regeneration. The pilot and her twin (who is still in fetus form and has her parts spread across the ship and is in a small orb that the pilot puts her hands on to psychically communicate and pilot the ship) are clones of the woman, albeit adjusted to increase the chance of being a type blue and red. Most of the pilots are this way. Although if the clone bit doesn't seem right she could always have had her legs grown from a vat, and those legs are cloned from the mama gator, and eventually the woman's cells overcame the pilot's. IDK.
uh the GOC would NOT allow for testing with D-class
Something about UIU tracking "backwater" Sarkic cult activity in Florida (hence the '27' in the case file number- Florida was the 27th state in the Union) in the late 1950s-1960s. Somehow the cults are interlinked- and the agents have tracked it to a large lake hidden in the Everglades. Within is the dead body of a giant woman, who births type-red (regenerator) crocodiles and alligators. She wakes up, and this causes the massive Sarkic uprising, which required the intervention of the GOC, the Foundation, and the UIU that led to the creation of SaMA-A84 "The Compact" in Florida to monitor the state. UIU has a more diplomatic stance post-uprising and maintains these connections with the CotBG churches and more "docile" Sarkic cults, now calling themselves "fraternities", and operate in smaller towns.
SCP-XXXX is the collective designation for the US state of Florida.
This is the
Uh, it's a nexus, and the GOC and the Foundation have been trying to maintain normalcy in the "backwaters" of the area for decades, and now set up an area shared by the two of them.
Quote is from Rick Riordan "almost everything strange washes up in Miami."
Sarkic cults are now banned due to the outbreak of SCP-610 in various cities around the world. This resulted in the veil being broken and the Mekhanite church having far more influence worldwide. Some areas have yet to be ‘purified’ and so are still quarantined. Several countries, if not fallen apart outright, had been split apart into various smaller ‘states’ during the outbreak and, for the most part, failed to come back together, either due to separation due to infected zones or because of influence by several groups, IE the Mekhanite church, Maxwellian or Cogwork Orthodox, the Serpent’s Library, the UN (GOC), etc.
The UN has become, due to most countries becoming far less powerful and more divided, more of a “confederation” of sorts, having far more authority then it did before, mainly due to the efforts of the GOC during the outbreak.
The Foundation, despite the breaking of the veil, has only become more secretive. According to some theories, there is a foundation black site in every continent. This is an idea propagated by the Foundation. There is a site in every city of at least 50,000 people. There are “MURF” (Mobile Urban Response Force) squads that are more akin to a swat team that operate in most cities away from GOC control as a sort of anomalous police force. Limited to modern, non-anomalous technology (for the most part), they are specially trained to deal with urban anomalies and assist local police forces. They are publicly known, but as understood by the public as, say, the FBI or CIA.
Levels of training:
Level 1: Civilian, up to and including law enforcement and most modern soldiers. Basic self-defense and combat training, and some lower-tier martial arts.
Level 2: Higher levels of martial arts, specialized military training and possibly assisted by “modern” cybernetics. Typical for MURF squads and most Foundation and GOC personnel. Nothing truly anomalous in the eyes of the public, to maintain the status quo.
Level 3: Most advanced martial art techniques known to the Foundation assisted by anomalous and/or high-tech cybernetic enhancement. Only used for more extreme MTF squads and the highest echelons in the Foundation. If the GOC has access to level 3 training, they have yet to be seen using it.
http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-2408
The club was pulsing with an unseen energy, almost like a heartbeat, constantly thumping through the air. The pulse was overwhelmingly natural, in a way that made Sophia uncomfortable. She tuned it out the best she could. As she trudged her way through the crowd, she could see some Похоть addicts mixed in with the people. While in clubs this far in the occult underground they were more open about the side effects, some still tried to hide the twisted bones, the unnatural protrusions, the disturbing light in their eyes, almost like they were ashamed. Nonetheless, it was obvious what they had done despite their best efforts.
Eventually, she reached the
The room was dark and cold, the distant whirr of computer fans constantly in the background, fading in and out as some unknowable intelligence utilized different aspects of its mind. It was a small catwalk, simplistic in design, over row after row of processors and computers, and, rarely, a human body, wired into the assembly, covered in archaic runes and esoteric mantras the Church was so well known for, running in and out the columbarium. Augmented followers, more heavily modified than the ones that let her in, patrolled the area, fixing any external and internal harm to the systems, all the while chanting with religious fervor. After giving her an odd look with its compound eyes, a cyborg continued walking along a catwalk across the room from her upon its arachnid-esque legs. Finally, she approached the center- a large pillar with 6 sides, each having a passageway leading to 6 pathways on this level. Above, she could see that the pillar went on for another 3 “levels”, each with 6 respective catwalks leading away from the core. As she passed through the doorway, she saw on the interior walls dozens of bodies. All wired in and in a preserved state, their bodies shriveled and almost husks, but disturbingly alive, if such a term could be applied to the human figures whose only signs of life were the occasional tremble of the lips and whispered prayer. Several figures had a mask of various materials, some of the older, more decayed bodies having ones of porcelain, all an attempt to replicate the face they had before they were entombed here. Some resembled- and likely were- the faces of various saints and vicars. A woman shrouded in a red robe with golden lines running throughout her apparel sat upon a gilded throne in the center, only the lower part of her golden face was visible. She didn’t react at her approach, the cyborg stuck in a seemingly meditative state, her body suddenly twitching at random intervals, mantras spoken in hushed whispers as the computer fans whirred with a newfound burst of energy. Suddenly, the figure turned to look directly at her, tracking her, despite the hood assumedly covering her eyes.
You seek the truth.
The voice came from without, from within, from everywhere around her and nowhere at the same time. It was feminine, masculine, many yet one, all at the same time. It hurt to listen to. Her mind ached at the sensation. It recognized Sophia wincing at the voice, and instead spoke through the woman on the throne.
“Forgive me that one indulgence. We wish to make it absolutely clear what we are capable of.”
Sophia sighed.
“Right, right, of course. So, I take it you’re the Intelligence? The Consciousness, or whatever synonym for ‘mind’ your lot could come up with?”
“You are incredibly perceptive.”
“I thought of tickers as the more practical type. You, of all the cultists to be sarcastic, are awfully snarky.”
A soft chuckle emanated from the woman.
“Indeed. We are a gestalt consciousness, but we can still laugh, still sense humor, still feel emotion, as they were gifts given to us by God.”
“Mmm. Right. But I have some questions I need you to answer.”
The figure shrugged its shoulders in a remarkably human gesture.
“Ask away.”
“You’re…not busy?”
“We are always busy. But we are many-in-one, akin to the heretical Legion made by the Flesh. Yet, unlike it, we can operate on many different levels, in different places, in different times. That is what makes us so powerful- and, by extension, so dangerous in the eyes of the Foundation you worship.”
“I don’t- I don’t worship the Foundation. What does that even mean? I don’t follow a particular religion.”
“You do indeed. Tell me, do you not regularly sacrifice time, energy, resources, life, to the Foundation? Do you not spend time, on a regular basis, attending to its demands? Do you not adhere to its commandments?”
“You have an awfully loose interpretation of worship.”
“And you have an awfully loose interpretation of God.”
Sophia paused for a moment, confused by the statement but relatively undeterred from her task at hand.
“Alright, the questions.”
“Yes, of course. What Sarkic cult are you dealing with?”
“How did-“
I am in your head, friend.
“…alright, yeah. Is it the Sarkic cult at large?”
“Oh child, the Sarkic cult is in tatters. Despite their attempts to wipe away one’s own humanity and eliminate any desire, they are unrelentingly greedy for power. There is…oh, White Storm, Black Lodge, Red Harvest, Proto, Neo, I could go on. None are remotely unified. Funny, that. They are so focused on removing individuality yet are remarkably…iconic, in their separate little cults. There’s just an awful lot of them, and their connection to the Flesh is strong.”
“So which sect is it?”
“They, in their token lack of creativity, call themselves the New Flesh, a Neo-Sarkic cult.”
“It’s less of a cult and more of a revolution in most sects. Some very old members and a lot of relatively new members want to, instead of trying to take the cult back to its roots or change its core ideas, are instead trying to apply old Sarkic tradition to modern day. While Proto-cults are refusing to change, and Neo-Cults are changing too much, the New Flesh is the idea that they don’t want to change the cult to adhere to the world, but instead change the world to adhere to the cult.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sabotage. Subterfuge. Very discreet propaganda with even more discreet low-level cognitohazards. Trying to slowly take over. Far more successful is taking over small towns out in the country. Over the course of a couple of years almost every politician in a small Floridian town is a member of the New Flesh, and that’s just one example. They excel in taking over small communities and slowly expanding from there.”
“Then why are they in a big city like this?”
“Expanding.”
“…Alright, I’ll bite. What do I do?”
Another shrug.
“I would drop it. I don’t see how you could possibly take them on, much less find whoever it was that killed your friend.”
“That’s not an option.”
“I figured as much. I would find one of their members, interrogate them, slowly work your way up through the chain of command until you interrogate one who knows what’s what.”
“That was already my plan, but how would I know where to start? I don’t know any members.”
“As soon as I caught wind of this cult, I started keeping an eye on them. Internet forums, public meetings, stuff like that. Thing is, this cult is far worse than more organized Sarkic religions in the sense that very little is actually public. It’s like- hmm, Scientology, I guess, in the sense that more is revealed the more “in” you are. Most of the people in this ‘New Flesh’ are experienced veterans, too, and know better. Still,
found a strange article pending deletion by [[author DoctorGoethe]]. Not sure what it is but if you go back a revision they have an entire story that they're about to delete. I just want to save this before it's gone and maybe rewrite it?
| Item #: SCP-5961 |
 |
Object Class: Euclid |
| Level 3 Clearance |
Threat Level: Green ● |
An image of SCP-5961 captured on a thermal imaging device.
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-5961 is to be kept within Research Station-5961. This is the natural habitat of SCP-5961 and consists of a forest in the geographic center of the town of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. SCP-5961 has not been observed to leave this area, however, SCP-5961 must remain under constant observation. A tall concrete wall has been erected around the forested area to prevent any accidental direct visual observation of SCP-5961. Any civilians attempting to enter or leave SCP-5961 containment area are to be recovered, interrogated, and then administered Class-B amnestics.
Description: SCP-5961 is an anomalous entity of unknown origin, although recovered documents suggest a Germanic origin. When observed SCP-5961 appears to be being of, what has been described as, ‘indescribable beauty’ by human beings observing it. This beauty is believed to overload dopamine production in the observer’s brain, creating an addiction to seeing and pleasing SCP-5961.
SCP-5961's anomalous property appears to only affect those directly observing the creature. Attempts to digitally record SCP-5961 have proven ineffective as photographs and recordings only show a large blotch of white light. Additional testing has shown that SCP-5961’s effect is not transmitted through these images. Drones mounted with thermal imaging devices have been sent into the forest and reveal SCP-5961 appears to have a body similar to that of a large cephalopod.
During testing, SCP-5961’s anomalous properties did not seem to affect animals and the addiction is possible to be overcome through traditional rehabilitation efforts, although significantly more difficult. A D-Class with a history of drug abuse exposed to SCP-5961 compared the rehabilitation to 'overcoming cocaine and heroine at the same time’. Amenestics given to those experiencing an addiction to SCP-5961 will forget knowledge of the SCP-5961 but will retain their addiction.
SCP-5961 was first discovered in the Fall of 2019 when an unusually high number of missing girls were reported in the small Midwestern town of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. The town, having a history of such instances, was investigated by SCP personnel. After taking note of a large sectioned off forest area in the middle of town, SCP personnel investigated and encountered SCP-5961 sometime during the night. SCP personnel would later describe the encounter with SCP-5961 as ‘non-hostile’ and ‘beyond awe-inspiring’.
During this operation SCP-5961 was encountered briefly but before communication could be attempted SCP personnel were engaged physically by a man later identified as a local writer. The man was taken into custody and is presently detained at ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. Documents recovered from the man's hotel room have offered additional information on SCP-5961 (See Document-5961.1). Additional investigations conducted by ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ revealed this individual to be the cause of the missing girls, supposedly bringing them to SCP-5961 for unknown purposes. ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ was evacuated under the guise of a chemical leak and the town is now under SCP supervision indefinitely.
Somewhere in the middle of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ exists a small town with the peculiar name of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. It is a drive-through town, the type you will only come across if you choose to drive on rural back roads rather than the highway system. It is not a sprawling metropolis by any means, only needing to accommodate less than two-thousand persons. In fact, the town's population was approximately 1992 people during the last census report. Meeting a person who has heard of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇—let alone someone who from the town—is an oddity due to its location and size. For this reason, the tiny town exists within its own rural American bubble.
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ is quite the peaceful little town. The crime rate is practically nonexistent, and the community is good on taking care of one another. It is not large enough to feel bloated, nor is it small enough to strip citizens of basic luxuries. Furthermore, existing just three hours south of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ gave the town a lifeline to the outside world if needed. The town has maintained its population in spite of the supposed death of small-town America. Most families in ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ can trace their lineage to the town’s early settlers.
My great aunt had been a native of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ before moving west at the end of the late sixties. I didn’t know my great aunt very well. Spending her time looking out the window of her bedroom brought the old woman greater amusement than communicating with her family. I do not believe anyone in my family had ever seen her smile, not even the apparent fondness she had for staring at the wood line of her back yard brought her even the subtlest grin. On the few rare occasions, I had visited her home, the old woman looked to the wood line like a widow looking out to sea. I remember when I was young having asked my mother why my ‘gweat ant’ always stared at the wood line.
“She is looking at the pretty flowers we planted in her garden Grant,” My mother politely informed me as we drove home. “Sometimes when a person’s mind grows as old as hers, they start to enjoy the simple things. Doesn’t it make you happy how much she likes the flowers we brought her?”
It didn’t make me happy, but I didn’t let my mother know that. My great aunt spooked me as a child, and despite what my mother said, I knew the old woman was looking into the wood line. I never worked up the courage to actually ask my great aunt what she was waiting for as she stared at those damn trees.
Following the death of my great aunt, I came across a leather-bound diary while my family sorted through her estate. Glancing through the worn diary, I gathered the book, despite being in my great aunt’s possession, did not belong to her nor any other member of our family. Rather, the diary belonged to a young girl named Susan ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. After doing some digging online, I discovered the girl had lived, and gone missing, in the town of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ during the early 1890s. The case, like many other missing person cases of the time, went unsolved.
I finished aiding my relatives in organizing the estate before heading home with the diary. Reading the girl’s handwriting proved difficult, as it appeared her literacy was lacking, but I managed to trudge through and uncover every detail I could of the girl’s life from the diary. It seemed she had been born in the summer of 1879 in ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. Susan's mother had died during childbirth, and her father quickly remarried a woman Susan came to despise. The girl enjoyed wandering through the woods, reading, fishing at the local lake, and she even had an imaginary friend known as the ‘Elf King’ who would play with her throughout the day. The diary stops abruptly as it appeared the last few pages had fallen out with time, however the mystery of what happened to this girl stirred in my stomach.
Being a journalist—specifically a journalist trying to break into investigative journalism—I continued to search for more information about the subject, but I found myself unable to find any other details online. What I had uncovered before reading the diary was all that was known of Susan ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. The flow of information from the internet proved to be a barren desert on anything related to the case, while the town of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ provided only a murky droplet in comparison. This would have led to frustration in most people; however, I saw it as an opportunity. The next morning, I approached my editor, the phenomenal Lauren ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, and pitched my idea to her. Trying my hardest not to seem nervous, I told her how I would fly to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ and attempt to uncover the mystery of what happened to Susan ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. Surprisingly, Lauren praised the idea of me attempting to solve a mystery over one-hundred-years in the making. Within a week, Lauren had me on a plane to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇.
I arrived in ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ towards the end of the day. Quickly acquiring a rental car, I made my way south to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. The droning trip proved to be long and quiet, with only the occasional semi-truck joining me as a travel companion before venturing off to a different destination. Lonely car rides always feel mind-numbing, however, seeing ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ for the first time awoke me.
The first thing one will note when driving into ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ is the large dark wooden sign which lay a little over one hundred meters in front of the town. The sign said “▇▇▇▇▇▇▇" in bold letters, above a tagline of "▇▇▇▇▇▇▇'s little secret". Every letter on the sign appeared to be intricately carved into the dark brown wood. The sign would have been quite pleasant to look at if not for the piercingly bright blue paint which coated each of the letters.
The second item of note are the first two odd buildings seen entering the town. On the right side of the street stood a rustic gas station snatched from the time of the Second World War. Across the street, stood the most oddly decorated motel in modern America. A kaleidoscope of colors strutted across the roofing of the motel, while the outer walls were decorated thickly with skeletons, bats, spiders, pumpkins, and all sorts of other Halloween decorations. Every door of the motel was crafted to look different, with one having a Santa Claus design and another being painted to look as if it were a brick wall. It should have looked tacky, but the decorator had balanced the color and decorations perfectly, turning a cheap motel into a work of art.
I would be staying there during my investigation, as it is the only motel in town, and I found myself pleased to not be staying in the trashy small-town motel which I expected. A sweet old woman by the name of Ethel greeted me at the counter and set me up with my accommodations. Heading to my room to rest, I plopped my things down and quickly fell asleep, for I would need to be well rested for the start of my investigation the following morning. At this point, I had not anticipated the scintillating horror which I would uncover in that egregious little town.
The following morning, I awoke to the smell of breakfast. Throwing on a simple outfit, I stepped outside to find a light breeze wafting the smell of freshly scrambled eggs and sizzling bacon from a diner just down the road. The American classic style of diner mocked what one would expect from a small town; the type of diner with large windows, red booths, a countertop with cushy stools, checkered floors and a great white sign simply announcing ‘diner’ in neon lights.
As I entered the dinner, I seated myself at a booth and had begun to look over the menu before Ethel surprisingly sat down and joined me for my meal. I had not invited her to sit, however, I am glad she did. The two of us found ourselves talking about why I had come to town. Ethel appeared to be familiar with my great aunt, going so far as to even claim that my great aunt had been a bully to poor Ethel's younger brother. Considering all I had known of my aunt was her fondness to stare into nothingness, this proved to be quite the surprise. Conversely, Ethel then told me something even more unexpected, as, before the birth of my grandmother, the townsfolks chased my family out of the town. Being twelve at the time, Ethel could not be certain why such an event occurred; however she recalled the night vividly.
"Folks always say the most civil of people are the worst to upset. I tell you it isn't something you understand unless you've seen it," Ethel remarked as she spoke of the night my ancestors were chased out of town. The cup of coffee in her grasp vibrated, causing small droplets of hot coffee to spill onto herself and the table. The old woman ignored the steaming droplets and continued with her story. "I swear to our Lord in heaven, my father was the most civil man I had ever known, and I can still feel my fear of him that night over fifty years later."
“Why is that?” I asked as I began jotting down notes on table napkins with a pen I had borrowed from our waitress.
“My father stormed into the house shouting about a—pardon my language here Mr. ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇—‘dumb bitch’.” Ethel took a long sip of her coffee before she continued. As she lowered her mug, she took note of the spilled droplets and began whipping them up hastily with napkins. “My parents were very strict Christians; I tell you that sort of language was never used around us.”
I inquired whether Ethel had any more details of that night, but she could not recall anything of significance. The old woman gave a gracious smile before offering to pay for my meal. I refused, as it would have felt as if I were taking advantage of elderly women’s politeness. In hindsight, perhaps her kindness was intended to hide from me the truth of what lurked about the town. Conversely, I would like to believe she knew nothing of the town’s dark secret. Perhaps one day I will ask her.
I asked her about Susan ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ before I went on my way, it appeared Ethel knew little else about the girl than I uncovered from the internet. The old woman told me to discuss the matter with the town historian/mayor, before adding that I should talk to a man named Douglas. Explaining that she believed he may have known more about my great aunt, as he was one of the few adults from that night who was still alive and of sound mind.
Having never set foot on ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ soil, I expect navigating the town to be difficult, but it proved quite easy. Fundamentally, the bulk of the town resided along a large road that found itself wrapped around a gated forested area with a small lake. Although many smaller roads branched off this main road, all the buildings of note were found on this street. Wedged between the main road and the lake was a towering forest that I had somehow overlooked driving into town. Large, lumbering, dark oak and pine trees climbed high above all the man-made structures of the town, obscuring anyone from viewing the lake from a distance. Clumps of vegetation cluttered the forest floor and began to spread from the forest towards the town, only the grey pavement of the main road and a thick iron gate acted as a barrier for containing the nature of the forest.
Walking through town on my way to the mayor’s house, I took note of how pristine everything in the town looked. When one thinks too small-town America, the thought of abandoned buildings and hicks flood the mind, but ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ proved to be far removed from such stereotypes. ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ was the small-town America of our grandfathers, a town where everyone didn’t have much; yet what they did have is the best it could be. Evenly cut grass, free of weeds, defined every yard. Fresh paint and well-maintained houses were the norm. Every business opens early with smiling faces. The town felt as cozy as a nice warm blanket on a cold winter’s night.
Glancing about and admiring the town led to unintended eye contact with the locals, who reacted with kind waves in return. I assumed that perhaps living in a large city had made me unused to people being genuinely nice. However, I waved back to these strangers all the same. I began to turn my head towards the wood line to avoid any more unintended eye contact, staring at the lumbering trees in the middle of the town rather than the distractingly pleasant neighborhoods. Oddly enough, the branches of a few of the trees appeared to waved at me too. Telling myself it was the wind, I jokingly waved back as I went along my way.
Half an hour after leaving the diner, I found myself at a posh looking manor on the opposite side of the town. The humble—yet pristine—small-town feel which echoed throughout the town contrasted greatly with this decadent mansion. It appeared to be a recreation of the White House, although this version appeared much smaller and had an intentionally rustic finish. Great green bushes were placed around a fountain in the front of the building, while a metallic black gate surrounded the manor. A large golden plate placed itself on the swinging doors of the front gate, with two cursive letter Ds placed together respectively.
Before I could ring the buzzer, a balding husky looking man trudged out of the house waving at me just as friendly as the other town’s folk. Before I knew it, I had been invited inside his house and was drinking coffee with him in his library. Exploring his family history, the owner, Darius ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, explained how such a glorious estate could exist in the middle of nowhere.
Darius explained to me his family had bought vast swaths of land in the Midwest following the Louisiana purchase. They sublet a large amount of this land to individual farmers in exchange for profit. In the mid-1850s that Darius’ ancestor, a “true patriot”, had built the estate in ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ as a summer home. The family found themselves selling much of their land during the dust bowl—as those leasing their land were unable to pay their dues without having crops to sell—to accommodate all their expenses, before finally restoring their glory in the late 1990s, when Darius traded what land they had left in exchange for enormous shares in every major corporate farming operation in the Midwest. Darius defined himself as a “venture agriculturalist”. The wealth he brought into the town is what he claims “handed” him the position of mayor.
Although there are certainly those who would like to believe that all the rich are some mustache-twirling evildoers, Darius ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ did not fit into that stereotype. Rather than speaking of evil corporate plans, Darius enjoyed talking about his ancestors and how proud he was of his son and daughter’s ten thousand YouTube subscribers. The history of the town appeared to be the only subject where Darius found a passion rivaling to his family history. Darius’ family line found themselves using the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ summer home as their main residence—and for this reason—Darius defined himself as a "small-town boy at heart". He had befriended the former town historian during his youth and was the only candidate to take up the position after his friend's passing.
Waving his arms around as he paced, Darius began to explain the founding of the town in the early 1840s as a trading place for lumber and pelts, before developing into a farming town once agriculture became commonplace throughout ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. Before he could continue, I found myself drawn into asking about the massive trees in the middle of town.
“Kind of hard to miss, huh?” He said as he stopped pacing. Beads of sweat had begun to form on the husky man’s head as he found himself sitting in his obtuse red armchair. “Perhaps, for the sake of your investigation, you can just ask me the pertinent questions.”
“I hope that doesn’t offend you,” I replied with a soft chuckle. “but the article I am writing is for the missing case of Susan ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, not trees or the history of the town.”
"The young Susan ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇?" Darius said as he reached towards the coffee table between us for his drink. "I am afraid I don't know much more than anyone else. It wouldn't be a missing persons case if clues were abundant. Let alone enough clues to last until the modern day."
“Well, you see that’s the thing,” I said as I reached into my bag, before producing the diary of Susan ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. “I found this in great aunt’s possession, as we were dividing her estate. I figured it might be able to solve the missing girl’s case.”
The room became quiet as Darius’ shaking hands reached across the table and gently took the diary from my hands. He flipped through the first few pages with the same ease as a mother tending to an infant. His eyes glided across each of the pages swiftly before closing the book and setting it in his lap. Darius’ blue eyes looked deeply into mine before asking if I had shown the diary to anyone else in town. I told him I had not.
“How much?” Darius asked me bluntly. “A book like this belongs in the town’s archives.”
“It’s not for sale,” I said shaking my head. My mind danced around the idea of how much a man with as much money as Darius would be willing to spend on an old diary. I pushed the thoughts aside and focused on why I had come to ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ in the first place. “Although if I can solve this case then we can talk numbers.”
“There is no case to solve,” Darius retorted with the same bluntness as before. The kind man who had invited me into his living room had been replaced with a brick wall. Such a shift in attitude was likely something Darius had learned in all his years of business. “I am willing to give you fifty thousand dollars in cash right now.”
Darius continued to attempt to negotiate with me before I finally convinced him he could buy the diary after I published my article for the amount originally offered. Darius’ adamancy convinced me to even write the article in his personal office to ensure the book would not leave town. I collected the diary and bid Darius a polite goodbye before heading on my way. I still needed to go through newspaper clippings from around the time of Susan’s disappearance, as well as county records on the subject. However, I had one last interview in town I was willing to conduct.
I called the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ motel and acquired the address of the old man Douglas before heading to his house. The old man lived on the furthest edge of town, about two miles from the wooded area. Unlike the pristine nature of the rest of the town, Douglas lived in a worn-down trailer, far removed from any of the other houses. A rusted red truck stood in the overgrown grass; the fading red—almost pinkish—paint stood in contrast to the dark green grass. I had arrived at the trailer only an hour before sundown, and it did not appear to be the sort of place I would enjoy being in the dark.
Knocking on the sheet metal door, a slender old man covered in thick white hair greeted me. Standing amongst the rubble of the floor, an oxygen tank found itself beside Douglas' brittle legs, as a large clear tube extended from the tank into the old man’s nose. The old man's rustic voice had a rural twang as he asked me why I stood upon on his property and if I spoke English. I explained my investigation and made it very clear to him that I did speak English. Looking frantically around the outside of his trailer, the old man eventually waved me inside.
Cans of beer littered the floor, while the curtains and carpet appeared to have been stained yellow by decades of exposure to smoke. I made my way across the can covered floor and sat down on a ripped green sofa. Duct tape held in the yellow foam of the couch as Douglas sat beside me. He grabbed a remote and turned down the volume on some wrestling program before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
"So, are you here investigating the little girl or your aunt for this article?" Douglas asked as he removed the oxygen tubes and lit a cigarette. The old man went into a coughing fit as I explained my investigation was specifically on the disappearance of Susan ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, although any information about my aunt certainly of interest to me.
“The little girl was kidnapped.” Douglas replied as he took another puff of his cigarette. A long inhale drudged the cigarette to its filter as he looked at me waiting for my reaction.
“How do you know she didn’t run away,” I asked as I covered my nose from the smoke which flooded the trailer. “or she wasn’t murdered?”
“If you want to look at it from a three-dimensional perspective, all three of those events happened to her.” Douglas replied as he returned the oxygen tubes to his nose. “The real question is in which order?”
“What does that even mean?” I retorted, being more confused than I had been when I entered the trailer. “Also, how do you know this?”
"It means what it means bud, and I know what I know." He said with a forced chuckle. The smell of cigarette smoke still leaking from his toothless mouth. "She ran away, was kidnapped, and had been murdered. You look like a bright young man; I am sure you can arrange those thingamajigs every which way. If you're so curious about the girl, then I am surprised you just didn't ask your aunt. Perhaps she was she too busy staring at the wood line?”
“How did you know about that?” I said as my mouth became dry and limbs heavy. I had not told him this information. Everyone in my family believed my aunt had always been staring at her garden, only I believed she looked at the wood line. How could this hick, in the middle of nowhere, within the middle of nowhere, know this?
"It happens to everyone we saved from him, and some of the folks that do the saving," Douglas replied with a heavy sigh. "The only thing you can do is get them out of town long enough for him to find someone new. It's always the kids who are dumb enough to go into the damn woods despite all the adults telling them to stay away. That, or outsiders like yourselves, stopping here to camp and fish or whatnot. It isn’t always their fault though; he likes to tempt people with gifts and such. Although, we try a hell of harder to get the kids back.”
“Who is he?”
“Built a damn gate and—Who is he? Well, shit man, his betrotheds call him the Elf King, but I don’t know what he calls himself. The adults of the town don’t call him nothing particular, so I guess ‘Elf King’ is your answer there bud.” Douglas replied as he cautiously peered through his blinds at the setting sun. “You should stay here tonight. Everything in the forest or under the moon is his domain.”
“I’m sorry, lets back up a second.” I wiped the sweat from my forehead and stared at the old cook. “Are you trying to say an elf kidnaps, murders, and traumatizes children in ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇?”
“That is exactly what I am saying, yes. Don’t know if it is actually an elf, that’s just what survivors says.”
“You know what Douglas, it was nice talking with you but I need to be heading out now so thank you for your time. I’m heading out.”
“Grant,” Douglas voice wheezed as he wrapped a skeletal hand around my forearm. His grasp having only the strength of a paperclip. “It would strongly behoove of you to spend the night here.”
“I’m not wasting any more time on this fever dream garbage.” I said harshly, brushing his bony grasp with ease. Storming out of his trailer, I began trudging down the gravel road as he yelled from his trailer for me to return. Swirling pink and yellow rays of sunlight shined off of the vast fields of harvested cropland beside the road as I continued on the two miles trek back to town, greatly regretting not driving my rental car to my destination.
The light of the sun fell quickly in the distance as I found myself walking back in the dark. Having cooled off a little, I realized I had been a bit irrational in my anger. I considered heading back to the old man's place and apologizing, and possibly asking for a ride in his beat-up truck. I chuckled at the thought as the moon ascended on the horizon. The moonlight illuminated all that had gone dark following the sun setting, and I found myself grateful to be able to see my feet again.
After a while I realized I had been walking for hours, and yet it felt like minutes. The moon which had been on the horizon only moments ago now hung over my head and shined with a radiant pink light. Walking down the road now felt as if I were walking upon the softest feathered pillows, as the gravel of the ground had been replaced with ordinate bricks. The crop land began sprouting the same towering trees as I had seen in the center of town, their thick trucks making me feel protected. The cold night air became warm like a cascade of blankets and smelled like honey and roses. I should have been panicking at this development, but instead, I felt in total bliss.
Two sickly yellow eyes appeared in front of me, and as they approached, I could only stare at them. As they grew even closer, I could see they belonged to an eldritch being of indescribable beauty. What appeared to be his face was so glorious alone, it made every piece of artwork in the history of humanity equal to the most disgusting wastes which fill our sewers. Towering over me, and yet standing below me as well, the Elf King's radiant figure stood before my unworthy and diminutive form. Holding out a hand with four and nine tendrilled fingers, the entity’s pulsating yellow eyes looked into mine. A perfectly cut slit in the middle of his face opened as a serenade came out. I did not understand the beautiful sounds uttering from his orifice, but I knew what he desired.
I placed the diary in his hands and basked in the Elf King's perfection. His scintillating appearance dried my eyes and I could not help but blink. My eyes shut themselves for less than a second, as to not miss anytime looking away from his magnificence, yet when I reopened my eyes I found myself standing in my hotel with my hand still extended. I sat on my bed and tried to process what I had experienced. This town harbored a beast of pure beauty inside of it, a beauty so grand it made looking at anything else feel disgusting. This horrid town kept the damn entity a secret, and to themselves! I cannot be the judge on whether I would take the same act as the townsfolk, however, the thought of such a being sent shivers down my spine. I checked my phone and found almost a month had passed since I entered the town.
Dozens of missed calls—with many more missed text messages and emails—filled my phone. Over a week prior the rental car found itself being towed back to the true owner, and I missed my returning flight home as well. Lauren ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ fired me for not coming back to work. She didn’t believe in the Elf King, but I know it is true.
Such a stream of misfortune did not matter to me anymore, for I felt drawn to stay in ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. Living here for the last three months has been surprisingly easy, as everyone is very nice. I am uncertain if I want to leave this town. I want to see him again. I need to see him again. I will find a way to see him again, for I have brought him all the brides he desires.
[[/>]]
Per 
