Croquembouche 33

SCP-CYOA photographed prior to containment.

Item #: SCP-CYOA

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-CYOA is currently kept at Site-39 in pre-containment holding cell C (39-PC01-C). When not in testing it is to be kept in a standard containment locker of appropriate size.

SCP-CYOA is to be removed from pre-containment as soon as possible.

Description: SCP-CYOA is a gramophone, or record player, of unknown date of origin but consistent with design and manufacturing trends of the 1930s. It has an octagonal wooden base constructed of polished mahogany and is imprinted with the logo of HMV at the time. Atop this base is a turntable which is connected to the gramophone mechanism and a large brass horn. All components are in good condition.

SCP-CYOA currently has a black vinyl record on the turntable, which is turning at a standard rate despite no visible source of power.

Further examination is pending.

The gramophone makes a very drawn-out crackling sound, lasting something like ten seconds. You very clearly hear the sounds of English — the tone, the pacing, the sentence structure; the sharpness of 's' and the muffle of 'th'. You just can't quite make out what it's saying.

"Okay, Hawthorne, even you have to admit that that's speech."

"No, no it's not, it's just noise. More noise than before, sure, but it doesn't constitute a response."

There's another crackle. This time, you are absolutely certain that it ends with the word 'response', and it's not just imitating Sally.

"Look, I'm going to go." Sally says. "If you hear anything that's not useless whtie noise, let me know."

She leaves the holding cell, sliding the door shut behind her. It locks with a click. You check your pocket for your card — you still have it. It could be disastrous if you didn't.

You take mental aim at the gramophone, determined to find out what it is.

"What are you?" you ask. "I'm sure you can speak. Can you speak?"

It's the same noise as before, but it's less static and more metallic. There's words buried in there — less deeply than they were before. "I can speak."

You clap your hands together. "I fucking knew it. Why couldn't she hear you?" For a moment, you forget that you're talking to an anomalous object instead of some other version of Sally.

You're getting good at distinguishing voice from noise now. "She suffocates the air. I can only speak to you. Your air is the clearest. You are the focial point."

"I don't understand."

"No. It's too early. Talk to me again tomorrow. I will tell you everything I know."

"No, I want to talk to you now. What do you mean?"

There's no response.

You keep trying to get it to answer, your voice rising a llttle with each failed attempt, but it's a waste of time. You've no other choice but to head back to your office and finish off the article. You'll have to do what it says and speak to it again tomorrow.