Haunt Me, Haunt Me, Haunt Me

Link to article: Haunt Me, Haunt Me, Haunt Me.

:root {
     --header-title: "Department of Unreality";
     --header-subtitle: "Making the Unreal a ㅤㅤㅤㅤ";
}

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:root {
     --header-title: "Department of Unreality";
     --header-subtitle: "Making the Unreal a ㅤㅤㅤㅤ";
}
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It's Halloween.

You are at a 'costumed party.' 

You stand alone in the middle of the room. Around you, people talk in circles. Closed circuits of human interaction. You long to discuss the weather, or someone's latest publication, or anything of meaning to the people who seem to be doing just fine without you.

But you don't.

You put up bandages over the wound. Your job is [[[unreality-hub | too hard to explain]]], your position even more so. You, a bore yourself, couldn't bring these topics up, much less fit in within any conversation already happening around you.

You think back to simpler days. 

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When you found a flyer for a Foundation Halloween party, you were entranced by the idea of attending. Your time at the Foundation had consisted of drifting from Site to Site, gliding from place to place at the whim of [[[SCP-6208 | your office]]]. But this time, you would put your foot down. You would attend a 'costumed' party.

The mere idea of attending a party is exciting. Parties, after all, are where people have 'fun'. You would be able to speak to another human, and not the desk lamp wearing a [[[something-glowing | name tag]]] you found lying around. 

And yet, you stand still.

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For a Halloween party, the amount of costumes is underwhelming. A few researchers put work into their attire, while others clearly couldn't be asked to come up with anything.

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For a long time, you weren't sure whether to make a costume or not. You were anxious. If the costume was too elaborate, it would tell people that you had nothing else going on (which you didn't), and if it was too simple people would think you didn't care (which you did). The audience of people accosted your dreams, judging your wardrobe and costume choices. The fun was sucked out of thinking of a costume, until you couldn't get out of bed without feeling sick. This happened more than you would like to admit.

But you found a costume. On your daily excursion from your bedroom to your office, you figured it out. A few cuts here, a poke there, and it was ready. You stopped being Alex, and became a costumed individual.

A 'ghost'. A 'spooky' ghost.

You apologize to your linen closet.

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The room around you grows darker. You can see people move around you, standing in smaller groups. Some of them leave, some of them stay. Either way, they make a choice.

If only you would.

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You're never really sure what site you're staying at, a symptom of your office the spatial anomaly. Sometimes you wake up and feel the unfamiliar air on your skin. Sometimes a chill reveals that the space outside has changed, as you move from continent to continent. You are never 'home'. The people come and go, and you never get attached to anyone for too long. At first you thought that you could keep in touch with everyone you met, that you'd be able to make it work even when disappearing.

But you couldn't.

Countless messages from people you briefly met sit in your message inbox. You are too afraid to open them. //They must hate me.// 

Seeing the world seemed like a dream when you were younger. And at first, it was. But the excitement of an ever-fresh landscape quickly became droning. The excitement of not knowing where you were gave way to loneliness. You think you heard from a Foundation psychologist once. Mandatory psych evaluations //are// a thing, after all. But you never went. 

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You are scrolling through the settings app on your phone. 

The party around you has grown louder while you reminisced. You don't know what site you're at. Not that it would've mattered. You scan the room, looking for clues. A rainbow mosaic at the far end of the room reveals the answer. //Site-Canada.//

You're not sure what site this is, but Canada's outline within the logo makes it pretty clear that this //is// Canada.

You still don't really know where you are.

You start considering Canada, when you see a familiar face pass by. You light up with excitement. [[[SCP-6938 | You remember them.]]] The pataphysics person. You wonder whether that makes them a pataphysicist or a pataphysician. You choose not to dwell on the matter. They had a peculiar name, too. Blank? Zero? //Placeholder//. 

You see him join another group of people. A way in.

You wave at him.


You are waving.


You wave.


You keep waving.

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He sees you. His eyes grow wide. He leaves.

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You are alone.

You are alone.

You are alone.

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You're not sure how long it's been since you last spoke to another human being. You make your best effort to remember, but the days are muddled. You don't know what sites you've been in, how many times you've left your office, how often someone notices.

How often someone cares.

You remember being at Site-19 recently, for that one assignment you're pretty sure you had. The rest of it swirls around your brain. A [[[humint | bathroom]]] somewhere. A glimpse of a bottomless depth somewhere else. None of it makes sense. And through it all, maybe one or two conversations. //You don't talk, Alex.// 

//Like you want to be alone.//

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You are sitting at the refreshments table. No candy. You want Halloween candy. 

You settle for a drink. No harm in some of the ol' oh god this tastes like fire what is wrong with people--

You finish your drink.

You ask for another.

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You are alone at a Halloween party. You are no longer wearing a costume. Is that why everyone avoids you? You stand up, and head for the empty seat you occupied at the beginning of the party. Your whitest bedsheet now sports a dash of ketchup. Someone also walked over it at some point. You put on the costume anyway.

As you adjust your costume so that the eyes align with the holes in the bedsheet (you didn't make them big enough), you hear the party grow quieter. Then louder.

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More people have shown up. You notice an increase in the quality of the costumes. Too many people have shown up with the same costume, demons in luxurious attire. The smell of whiskey and smoke is overwhelming. More people arrive, with elaborate makeup that makes the demon costumes look almost too real. 

//Was there a costume contest?//

You look down at you ketchup-stained costume. The outline of a boot is present. 

You don't like your chances at winning the contest.

You decide to approach a group of people laughing near you. You figure that laughter is good. Laughter means people are having 'fun'.

The voices are resounding. Deep. Their timbre shakes the floor. But you are accepted into the circle. A towering figure hands you a cigar and a glass of something that smells oaky. You drink it down in one swig. It tastes like fire. //How many drinks have I had tonight?//

You decide to take another. 

Your costume starts slipping off. You readjust it.

You are no longer yourself.

You are //free//.

You glide around the room, conversation has never seemed so easy. You make lifelong friends. You glance at the skyline below you. A myriad of casinos waves back at you. 

You can see everything so clearly now. You can feel it happening. Someone will come in any second now, and tell you what you're supposed to do. Someone will be your 'friend', and you'll confide what you do and they'll give you advice and together you may be able to figure out what--

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You blink.

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You are standing (laying down?) somewhere (a corridor?) outside. 

Surrounding you is a small cadre of Foundation security. 

The insignias they normally display are absent. You can't quite make out what they're saying, but you decide to explain yourself as best you can. As you open your mouth to speak, you remember every drink you've had tonight.

//Foundation...//

You point at yourself.

//Trolley.//

That does not sound right.

//Throney.//

That sounds marginally better.

One of the agents approaches you. They try to take your costume off. As the ghost costume comes off, you are yourself again.

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You wake up in your dormitory. The morning sun hates you, and everything hurts. You are covered by a sheet. Hole-less. Ketchup-less.

You stumble into the adjacent room, your office. You find a number of discarded files. Nothing unusual there, at least. You wobble out the door, greeted by Site-19. You've been stationed here for weeks, your office unmoving. You notice some of the people you met yesterday pass by. You wave at them, expecting them to reciprocate. They look at you weirdly.

They leave.

You retrace your steps. You were in... Canada? But that doesn't sound right. You don't know it at the time, but Canada doesn't celebrate Halloween. And Site-43 (where you think you were), has no record of you being there.

You stare at your morning coffee for what seems like hours. A black void stares back.

//I'll get to the bottom of this,// you think. You won't. Surveillance records will show that you attended Site-19's Halloween party for a period of 10 minutes, talked to no one, and returned to your office, where you stayed for the remainder of the night. No sites you reach out to for information will respond.

But as you return to your office, you find something else sitting next to your nameplate. 

A bag of candy corn, unopened. 

Your favorite.

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Haunt Me, Haunt Me, Haunt Me

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