Magpie Swoops Issue 1 - Love Thy Neighbour

Link to article: Magpie Swoops Issue 1 - Love Thy Neighbour.
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|text= Magpie Swoops is the first publication for and by the anomalous. And our first issue is one for all you horror fans out there!  ]]

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⚠️ **Content warning:** This article contains a content warning for: child death and gore.
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+++ Message From The Editor - Beginning At Long Last
Hello to every ghoul, big and small! It's my pleasure to welcome you to the first ever issue of Magpie Swoops. 

This moment has been a long time coming. Ever since I was a little anklebiter, I've been collecting every magazine I could get my hands on. In my time, I've gathered magazines on picking rare mushrooms, making wedding cakes and even one issue covering competitive tic-tac-toe. But what's always been missing, and what I've always craved, is a magazine for people like me. Those who might be considered strange, horrific or as some organisations like to say, anomalous.

Ever since I came to that realisation, my dream was to create my own publication for such people. And the launching of Magpie Swoops 32 years later has made that dream a reality.

But what does Magpie Swoops publish, you ask? Well, my humble magazine[[footnote]] Online and physical, thanks to my friend Brian's website making magic! [[/footnote]] contains stories and articles written and submitted by people just like you, for people just like you! Whether it's gossip snatched from Karcist Sulkisk's diary, a guide on how to cast spells from the latest translation of the Book of the Dead or recipes using your favourite parts of Flesh Butterflies and Jelly Tigers, it can find its home in Magpie Swoops!

But for now, Magpie Swoops has only one contributor[[footnote]] Contributor in this case also includes having the final say on the website's design. Don't worry folks, I think I can convince him to dial it back within an issue or two. Bear with me! - B [[/footnote]] and only one article in its first issue. And that article is a very special one indeed. You see, I am a well-travelled man, and in my time I have seen many things, including the things that fall through the cracks. For every 100 monsters that end up in Foundation cells or gunned down by GOC firearms, there is one that escapes notice and remains hidden in the shadows, or even amongst us.

While this story is written in a way that may come across more like a campfire tale[[footnote]] I enjoy writing in my own style, and at this point in my life I'm too stubborn to learn any other. [[/footnote]] than a retelling of real events, I assure you that everything in it happened. Also real and very embarrassing was the mishandled investigation by the Foundation that occurred soon after the events in the below article concluded. I won't name anyone, as keeping the incompetent employed benefits us more than hinders us. Still, the 6 months and $500,000 they spent watching a pond looking for a 'swamp monster' was both confusing and hilarious.

But the escapades of a bumbling bureaucracy is not what you're here for, is it? No, you're here to learn about a creature I discovered while I walked through a town on the edge of Tornado Alley. I hope you enjoy my retelling of what happened when this monster encountered two unfortunate souls who didn't believe in the saying //Love Thy Neighbour//.

**- Diego Flores: Editor-in-Chief and owner of Magpie Swoops**

(P.S: A wonderful member of our little community has made an [*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/love-thy-neighbour artwork based on this very story.] After you've read this, I encourage you to take a look.
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+ Love Thy Neighbour
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'IT'S A GIRL,' screamed the mechanical voice as pink confetti and glitter rained down from the sky amongst the sounds of roaring laughter and devastated sobbing.

It had taken Denise Dane a month of careful planning to put together the gender reveal for her unborn child. She'd spent hours online searching for gender-neutral decorations, sourced the best cake from a bakery three hours away and had sent out hand-crafted invitations to half the town. Understandably, she'd been most careful with the envelope containing the gender, giving it only to her best friend, Theodora Warren, who planned the reveal with a line of tiny cannons and a special announcement to go with them.

What neither Denise nor Theodora had considered in all their careful planning was that their two youngest neighbours would also want to get in on the fun.

It had been trivial enough for the two boys, both on the cusp of entering their teens, to sneak in and set off the spectacular reveal just 16 minutes after the party had begun. Needless to say, the reveal coming four hours before its scheduled announcement was heartbreaking to the mother-to-be, who had broken down crying amongst the falling pink glitter.

Those closest to Denise quickly surrounded her and ushered her indoors, away from the source of her despair and her guest's prying eyes. Other attendees talked amongst themselves, commenting equally on how right or wrong they were about the child's gender and how amusing and tragic the party's outcome had been. 

Only Theodora had spotted the boys as they made their getaway, bolting from the computer controlling the cannons and speakers to their bikes, which had been dumped on Denise's front lawn. As they sped away from the scene of the crime with glee in their eyes and mischievous cackles erupting from their throats, Theodora made her plan for vengeance known.

'Mark my words! Your parents //will// be hearing from me!' Theodora screeched at the slowly retreating figures.

In response, the boys turned in unison and flipped her off. It was one final act of defiance, one they both knew would get them into even more trouble when they inevitably faced the music. Even still, they couldn't resist throwing a tiny bit more salt in the wound.

As the boys finally rounded a corner and escaped the sight of their neighbour's irate best friend, her voice followed them. Brought by the wind, or perhaps dumb luck, the final words they would ever hear from her reached their ears.

'You'll get yours, you spoiled brats! You'll get yours!'

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There was a time when Bradford had been a thriving community, a time when local businesses were aplenty, as was employment. However, the 2008 global financial crisis put an end to those times. Most businesses were forced to close as the money dried up, and with them went the jobs, the disappearance of which made things even worse for Bradford. 

The town never fully recovered after the crisis. Those businesses stayed closed, their corpses scattered across Bradford, decrepit and rotting. Boons, though, did still exist amongst the carnage if one had the mind to seek them out. And the plethora of abandoned buildings made it easy for anyone looking to find the perfect hideout. After much debate three summers before, the two boys had chosen an old mattress store as their private retreat due to its intact roof and the wide variety of cushions, pillows and mattresses that had been left there by the now bankrupt owners. But someone's trash is anothers treasure, and the boys had build many structures from the abandoned items, including grand thrones from which they ruled their haven.

The rubber of the bike's tyres rubbed against the gravel, announcing their arrival like a quartet of trumpeters dressed in fine linen. They leaned their bikes on the brick fence that surrounded the old store and then raced to be the first one inside. The winner was a tall boy with blonde hair glued to his head with sweat and dark green eyes that darted across the space before him. They stilled on an elaborate armchair constructed of a folded mattress and a mix of blue pillows and cushions with a faded floral pattern. The boy bolted toward it, then leapt into the air and landed squarely on the makeshift piece of furniture.

The boy's companion entered as he wriggled and writhed, trying to get comfortable as the springs fought against him. A jagged and vicious scar was the most obvious feature on the companion's face. It cut from the tip of his nose, sliced through his forehead and stopped just before the hairline. The fading red stood out when paired with the child's brown eyes and hair, even more so when compared to his blue jeans and green cotton shirt. 

It didn't take long for the boy with the scar to spot his accomplice lounging in the armchair. Upon seeing him, he glared. 'Why do you always steal my chairs, Nate?' he asked. 'You know I made it, and that makes it mine.'

Nate looked at his companion standing by the door, much in the way a cruel king would look at a peasant who came to his throne room to beg for food during a famine. 'You're too slow, Ryan. If you want your chair, then ride here faster so you can get through the door first. Or come here and fight me for it.'

The pair locked eyes, the challenge hanging in the air between them. In the end, it was Ryan who looked away first.

'Whatever, if you want it that badly, you can keep it,' Ryan said as he shrugged, attempting to lessen the wound from his lost battle. He made his way over to a stack of cushions and pillows and fell into them, allowing his eyes to drift to the ceiling. The chipped and cracked white paint that covered it reminded him of the picket fence that surrounded his home. 

'Who do we hit now?' Nate's inquiry cut through the noise of Ryan's thoughts.  

Ryan looked at Nate and raised his eyebrow. 'Today's the last day of summer vacation. I guess the only thing we can do is hang out here until we need to head back and face our parents.'

'Is that how we want to end summer?' Nate retorted. 'We should have one last bit of fun, Ry. Something to make this summer the best one ever.'

Ryan scratched the back of his head. 'We could hit Mr Deaken again. He's always good for a quick laugh and easy to trick, too.'

Nate scoffed in response. 'Deaken is no fun anymore. We've pranked him a dozen times, the most out of anyone on our street. There is no point going there again.'

'Myers, maybe? Or we could hit up the Community Hall. We're bound to ruffle some feathers if we go there,' Ryan offered, but Nate wasn't listening. Instead, he picked his nose and flicked snot across the room. 'Nah,' is all he offered to his friend in reply.

A long sigh left Ryan as he sat up and shot a look at Nate. 'If you're gonna be picky, you choose.'

'Alright, I will,' Nate declared before he hopped up from the armchair and made his way to a low table, the only such piece of furniture remaining in the store. On it was a map of Bradford, the words 'Property of Bradford Town Council' plastered across the top in a bold, red font. Across the map, scribbled in a mix of pencil and marker, were names and crosses. These unique additions to the map marked both the homes of all its residents and the locations where the pair had pulled their pranks. Needless to say, nearly all the names on the map were accompanied by a cross.

Nate inspected the map like a lioness stalking a gazelle. Eventually, his eyes widened, and he grinned. 'We'll hit Gramps,' Nate said, pointing at an oddity on the map. It was a hand-drawn house with the name 'Gramps' scribbled above it. The poorly drawn domicile sat on the edge of the map, barely within the bounds of Bradford. 

Ryan joined his friend. 'Who is that?'

'Remember that story Cindy told at camp? The one where her cousin's best friend's girlfriend found a creepy house on the edge of town, went inside and never came out? That's the house Gramps lives in,' Nate clarified.

'I think I know who you're talking about,' Ryan said, a mild disgust evident in his voice. 'I just don't know if the name fits that old ass. It's too nice.'

'Look, we can debate my choice of name later,' Nate said. 'You've got to admit he's the perfect mark. I mean, haven't you wanted to see if that house is really scary?'

'I guess, but right now?' Ryan questioned, 'Is that a good idea? It's almost dark out.' Ryan glanced at Nate with a look of uncertainty and concern as he spoke. 

Nate scrutinised Ryan, searching for something. Just as suddenly, Nate relented and gave him a dazzling smile. 'We could use your tube thing.'

Ryan lit up and darted over to a nearby pile of cushions. He dove his hand into it, moving it around until he yelled, 'Gotcha.' He removed his hand, now gripping a clear tube filled with glitter and a mechanism attached to one of the ends.

'I haven't tested it,' Ryan muttered. Despite the less than confident reply from his friend, Nate didn't hesitate to put his arm around his friend's shoulders and began moving him toward the door. 

'If I know you, Ry, that thing will spread so much glitter throughout that old fart's house that he'll be breathing it in for weeks,' Nate said.

'It'll be awesome if it does work,' Ryan replied. 'I won't even regret the extra grounding I'll get for staying out late.'

Ryan continued to chatter about his one and only creation as he and Nate walked back out the door they entered through.

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The last streaks of sunlight shot across the sky as Nate and Ryan arrived at Gramp's house. It was situated along one of two roads that lead to Bradford, a stone's throw away from the town's poorly maintained welcome sign. It was an odd place for a home, but that suited it just fine. Because if there was one thing to be said about the property, it was that it was a strange place indeed.

It sat at the centre of a small grove of cedar and elm trees, scarred from years of having their branches ripped from them by passing storms. The house itself was far from modern. It was built completely from wood, with the only exception being the glass that made up the windows. Faded, green blinds covered those openings, ensuring that no one would be able to glimpse into the depths of the home.

The outside was unkept, the only part of it that it had in common with other homes found in Bradford. It was covered mostly with rusting cars and motorcycles, a grand presentation of how vehicles had evolved throughout the decades and how they were abandoned when their decade ended. And where there wasn't a rusting husk, there were bushes, small trees, weeds or nothing at all but the ground.

Nate and Ryan looked down at the property from the edge of the grove, staring down a path that led right to Gramp's front door. It was the only passageway free from debris on the property and, thus, their only way forward. Nate was the first to take a step and cross the boundary between public and private. He kept his bike with him, looking around for a suitable place to stash his getaway vehicle. Ryan followed, shoving the glitter bomb into his pocket as he walked.

The first thing the boys noticed as they wandered down the path was the mud. Mud wasn't strange in and of itself. After all, living in an area famous for its terrifying storms meant both of them were very familiar with the feeling of sinking into mud with each step. But given there hadn't been rain in Bradford for weeks, it wasn't expected. Even so, the boys kept walking, ignoring the mud that dirtied their worn trainers.

Halfway down the path, Nate stopped next to an old sedan whose silver paint had mostly been replaced with rust. He leaned his bike against it and signalled for Ryan to do the same. Then, he crept to the next car over and crouched down behind it. It gave him a hiding spot that also provided decent views of his surroundings. And it was close enough to the path that they could flee if they needed to.

'What do we do?' Ryan whispered once he made his way over to Nate. 'The windows are closed, so we can't shove anything through there.'

Nate inspected the front of the house as Ryan rattled off different strategies and possible avenues of attack. He briefly considered journeying around to the back of the home to see if there were any open windows. But when his eyes settled on a small slot in the front door, he knew they'd found their opening.

'We put it through the mail slot,' he replied, pointing to the front door.

Ryan gulped but still made his way with Nate toward the door. With each step they took, the world around them became quieter. The sounds of newly awakened nocturnal animals faded, as did the distant echoes of Bradford's nightlife, however little it had. And there was nothing to replace it. The trees surrounding the house didn't rustle in the wind, and no life seemed to occupy them. The house, too, made no noise. It didn't creak, and there was no sound coming from the inside.

This silence, which had become the new normal for Nate and Ryan, was matched by the front door when it silently opened, revealing nothing but darkness. Both boys stopped in their tracks and flinched.

Nate quickly recovered and began trying to penetrate the void beyond the door, attempting to see if something or someone had opened it. But he saw nothing and muttered to himself about the door being opened by the wind or faulty hinges.

Ryan, on the other hand, was lost in a memory of a cold evening sitting in front of a campfire. Cindy stood before the blaze, her face a patchy mess of shadow and orange light. She spoke with a mixture of exaggerated voices and movements, telling a story of a house, an unfortunate visitor and the horrors within the abode.

An involuntary shiver allowed Ryan to escape the memory. He breathed in and regained his composure before turning to his friend. When their eyes met, Nate grinned. For him, this quickly planned, seemingly impossible prank was getting easier to pull off by the second. 'Go throw the tube in, Ry,' Nate commanded. 

Ryan turned to Nate, fear obvious on his features. 'Why me, dude?' Ryan pleaded.

'Because it's your thing, and I don't know how it works. Now get going before the old fart notices his door is open.' Nate said as he pushed his friend forward. The suddenness of the action made Ryan stumble and fall to the ground. His knees hissed as they slid through the mud, the skin scraped off by tiny stones and other debris hidden within the muddy ground. Ryan looked back at his best friend, who mouthed 'sorry, Ry' at him and gave him a thumbs up as encouragement.

Stuck between his friend and Gramp's strange abode, Ryan chose the unknown. He took his first step over the threshold and halted as soon as his foot touched the floor.

It was warm and spongy and wet under his feet.  

Ryan looked down and pressed a foot into what appeared to be vinyl flooring. The sensation reminded him of when his house had flooded and soaked the carpet. It gave little resistance as his foot lowered more and more. But, the more he pushed, the more a water-like liquid poured out from it. It smelt vaguely of sweat, and there was enough to completely saturate his shoe, leaving his foot with a warm, burning sensation. When he tried to pull his foot back, the liquid became jelly-like and stuck to him, holding his limb in place until he pulled it out with all his strength.

Its existence was enough to get him to reconsider his current course, an angry Nate be damned. But if Ryan was going to retreat, to head home and wait for his punishment, it was too late.

The sound of fleshy squelching drew Ryan's attention from the floor to the darkness ahead of him. Teeth, thousands of them, had emerged from the walls and floor. They weren't organised like human teeth are. No, these teeth were scattered haphazardly, jutting out randomly across the house's insides. Some were large and pointed, similar to needles or Porcupine spines. Others were shorter and more square in shape, perfect for crushing and grinding anything that came within reach. And all of them varied in colour, from a pristine white to nearly black, and smelling strongly of decay.

The teeth, however, were quickly surmounted by a figure that emerged from the darkness between them. That figure, Ryan assumed, was Gramps. His upper half was that of an older man, well into his eighties or perhaps nineties. His skin was light green and covered in a light layer of dirt. He wasn't wearing any clothing, allowing Ryan to see how emaciated the old man was. It was as if he hadn't eaten in years.

But whatever humanity still remained in the top half of Gramps was not shared by his lower half. His legs had been replaced by, or perhaps had always been, a long tube of wavering flesh that somehow held the man upright. It wrapped around below Gramps like a spring before slinking off into the darkness. It made a fleshy writhing noise, one that Ryan heard coming from further within the house, telling him there was far more of it hidden in the blackness beyond the door.

Ryan let out a scream that was matched by Gramps.

'GET OFF MY LAWN!'

The terrified boy couldn't even comprehend moving before Gramps launched at him. He grabbed Ryan by the ankles and sank his fingers into his flesh before pulling him back into the house. Ryan fell backwards, hitting his head on the doorframe, disorientating him for a few seconds.

As his friend's body began to move into the house, Nate jumped up and leapt at Ryan, grabbing his hands. From this new angle, he had a perfect view of the terror encompassing his friend's face and his first view of the monster trying to take him. Nate couldn't take his eyes away from Gramp's rage-filled face and the fleshy mass he was connected to. Every synapse in his brain demanded he ran, demanded he tried to save himself from whatever the old man truly was. But he didn't want to leave his friend.

'Nate, help me, please! Make him let me go!' Ryan begged between choking sobs.

'I'm trying, Ry,' Nate yelled back in reply. It was as much a promise as it was a plea for help that he knew would go unanswered.

He pulled with all his might, using the doorframe as leverage. But his sweat and Ryan's made their hands slippery, too slippery for any leverage gained to matter. As their hands slowly separated, Nate shouted louder. Ryan's sobs joined him, their choir echoing to the unoccupied road, but not any further.

Their hands finally disconnected, and Ryan flew backwards. The waiting teeth enclosed around him in one sudden movement, shredding and crushing Ryan's body between them. As this happened, the glitter bomb somehow escapes the carnage and drops to the floor, detonating.

Nate stared into the house's maw, his best friend's blood dripping from its teeth and his tattered flesh decorating the pulsating walls and floor. What little moonlight made it insidethe house glimmered off the glitter that now coated the writhing walls and viscera-covered teeth.

Nate's body screamed at him to run, but his mind kept him locked in place as it desperately attempted to comprehend the scene before him. It took the house expelling a long breath smelling of vomit, blood and rot that made Nate almost vomit for him to move.

He spun around and started running for the road. By some miracle, Nate didn't stumble in the mud or trip on the junk scattered around the yard. Every step brought him closer and closer to an escape, to someone who might be able to save him and maybe save Ryan.

But his hope was extinguished when Nate felt something soft and warm wrap around his right leg. He was slammed to the ground, his front becoming covered by mud that blinded him and made his movements more difficult. Rapidly scratching at his face to unblind himself was the only thing Nate could think of doing as whatever tripped him tightened its hold on his leg.

Wiping away the final lump of mud covering his eyes, Nate turned his attention to his right leg. What tripped him wasn't a bit of debris or a root. It was an unnatural string, coloured a mixture of green and yellow with several tiny golden antennae sticking out from its end. It was an electrical wire, Nate realised, except it was made of flesh. He reached down and pulled at it, attempting to remove it. The flesh-wire didn't put up much resistance, quickly retreating from Nate's assault.

Breathing rapidly and driven purely by adrenaline, Nate stood and began moving toward the road again. He could see it fully now, and Bradford's noise could again be heard. But as he ran, he heard Ryan's terrified scream behind him. 

'Nate, help me, please! Make him let me go!' Those words made Nate turn his head at the worst possible time.

Gramps was behind him and rushed toward him with a speed that was at least double Nate's own. The flesh tube connected to him extended endlessly, allowing Gramps to advance unimpeded. Accompanying him was Ryan. His lower half had been removed and replaced with its own flesh tube. His top half was sliced and slashed. Large chunks of skin were dangling off his body or missing entirely. His head was the only part of his body that remained relatively unscathed, but even that was covered in blood and glitter. Together, as they moved toward Nate, Ryan and Gramps screeched.

'GET OFF MY LAWN!'
'Nate, help me, please! Make him let me go!'

The road, his escape, which had for a moment seemed so close, was now getting further away from Nate as he was tugged back by Gramps. Nate didn't scream as he was pulled closer and closer to his demise. He only stared forward at the increasingly distant road as Gramps sunk his gnarled fingers into Nate's stomach, creating cuts with his cracked nails. Perhaps he did this because he had already accepted this fate and was now awaiting the inevitable, or maybe his brain had taken over, shielding him in his final moments. Either way, it didn't matter.

Ryan, or whatever was puppeteering him, did nothing to help Nate. His eyes stared, unblinking and uncaring at Nate as he retreated back toward the house.

Unlike Ryan, Nate was not taken through the front door. Instead, he was forced through a new hole, a small window near on the house's right side. His body was too large to easily fit through the small space, but that didn't seem to matter to the old man. He was dragged through as bones snapped and flesh was cleaved and sliced. In his last agonising few seconds, Nate was taken inside, leaving behind a splattering of blood on the outside of the house and the ground surrounding it.

Finally satiated, the house let out a low growl that rattled the rusted vehicles, bushes and trees. A mass of the flesh-wires emerged from the house and the soil surrounding it and began to clean up any sign that the boys were once there. By the time they had finished their work, it was as if Nate and Ryan had never been there at all.

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In the days following the disappearance of Ryan Wern and Nate Abbott, the town of Bradford came out in force to search for the pair. The local police investigated day and night, scouring clearings, ponds and thickets. Farmers rode through their fields, calling the boy's names, and the boy's parents stood together in front of a large gathering of journalists, the four of them pleading for their children to come home safely. Missing posters were taped to every post and wall, a reminder to the residents of Nate and Ryan, a silent call for them not to be forgotten.

It was obvious to every outsider who entered the town during those dark days that the people of Bradford were beside themselves with worry about the missing boys. People's eyes were always on the lookout for their blonde and brown hair, and their ears listened for two bicycles speeding down the streets, their riders laughing or chattering about the newest episode of their favourite cartoon.

But whatever unity Bradford found in the wake of the boy's disappearance was quickly marred. Questions about what had happened to Nate and Ryan and who had been responsible were whispered amongst family, friends, and neighbours. Accusations came with these whispers, many of which found their way around town. Residents who were considered odd or black sheep were targeted, the claims entirely false or riddled with half-truths. Long-lasting relationships and hard-earned trust were shattered, and invisible boundaries were constructed across Bradford, forever breaking the town's heart.

As for the true culprit Gramps and the house he occupied didn't see much scrutiny from the search parties. Most didn't remember he lived close to Bradford, and those who remembered the old man and his rundown house didn't think him capable of such a thing. 'He so old,' they told themselves, 'No way he'd be able to do anything to those boys.' A few flashlight beams and hard stares did find their way onto Gramp's property, but none of them saw anything of note. There were no bikes amongst the junk nor footprints in the mud, so those eyes and beams moved on to search elsewhere.

If there was any further scrutiny to be cast upon Gramps, it came far too late. Tornado season brought with it a monster storm, a category 5 twister that ripped its way through Bradford. No one died, thanks to the early warning system alerting the town's residents to the coming storm. Except, it would seem, for Gramps. When the storm cleared and reconstruction began, three children searching for their lost toys blown away in the violent winds would discover Gramps and his home gone. It was ruled soon after that he had died, a victim of the tornado's fury.

But if I may divulge a secret to you, dearest ghouls, the house isn't gone. I have it on good authority that a house matching its description appeared in a state over, on the outskirts of a town similar to Bradford. The citizens of this unnamed town were surprised by the abrupt appearance of the strange domicile, but none cared enough to look into the matter. It became something people whispered about for a time, then forgot when the next big thing to gossip about came along.

Should you, like me, find yourself wandering through towns most don't know exist, you may come across that house. Its yard is free of broken-down cars and rusted motorcycles, instead dominated by overgrown grasses and weeds. The exterior is less rundown, though not by much. The main difference you might notice, if you dare get close enough, is the occupants. Gramps, of course, is one of them. He is as old and grumpy-looking as he has ever been. But his complexion is paler, and his skin grips the bones of his body as if it were a tight latex. And his eyes are hazy, overtaken by cataracts. It is clear to everyone who sees him that he doesn't have much time left.

Joining him, though, are two new faces. They're both young boys, one with blonde hair and dark green eyes, the other with brown hair, brown eyes and sporting a large scar on his face. They have never been seen in town, or outside their house for that matter. One of them will occasionally pop out of one of the home's windows, only their top half visible and a stick or other throwable object in hand. As they raise the object, ready to pelt it at whoever is intruding on their space, they scream a garbled mess of noises as if they're trying to speak without ever having learned how to do so.

At night, though, if you wander alone to the house, you'll hear something else. A fragment of an event long since concluded. It entices many who hear it to investigate, to draw closer to the house's open door and peek inside.

'Nate, help me, please! Make him let me go!'
'I'm trying, Ry.'

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+ LIMITED TIME DISCOUNT OFFER!!!!
Are you a member of an anomalous community?[[footnote]] Including but not limited to The Stronghold of Roses, Rare Ingredients Society, Zombies Anonymous or The Semi-Free Portal City Of Picton. [[/footnote]] Or are you anomalous yourself? Then do I have the deal for you!

For a limited time, you can get **20% off** a yearly subscription to Magpie Swoops! That's right, you can get all our delightful articles for **just $119.99 a year!** Just use the code **ANOMALYSPOOKY** at checkout!
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> **Filename:** breakfeather.png
> **Author:** Sinking_Otter
> **License:** CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/magpie-swoops-issue-1-love-thy-neighbour
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Magpie Swoops Issue 1 - Love Thy Neighbour

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