SCP-8066 Fear Logs

Link to article: SCP-8066 Fear Logs.


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=====
[[include component:preview
text=A window into a universe of fear. Let's open it together.
]]
=====

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[[div class="meta-title"]]
SCP-8066 Fear Logs
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[[div class="pseudocrumbs"]]
[[[SCP Anthology 2024]]] » [[[SCP-8066]]] » SCP-8066 Fear Logs
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[[div class="blockquote lightweight"]]
[[=]]
God is dead.
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[[[SCP-8066 | Reality has been enveloped by a LABYRINTH of living nightmares.]]]
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The horror has only just begun.
[[/=]]
[[collapsible show="Are you afraid?" hide="Fear is all we have left."]]
[[[SCP-2006]]] has swallowed the universe. Or, it has instituted itself as a new law of reality. Or, it has always been in control and is only now pulling back the curtain.

The truth of what's going on doesn't matter anymore. Truth, itself, doesn't matter. The concept no longer exists in any meaningful way. The only thing that matters -- that will ever matter again -- is terror.

To contribute to this chronicle of dread, use the following format:

[[code]]

[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Character Name

**BOX:** Setting

**WITNESS:** [[*user author-username]]

----

Fear log description.

[[/div]]

@@ @@

[[/code]]
[[/collapsible]]
[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Dr. Errata T. Cetera

**BOX:** [[[https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/ | The Wanderers' Library]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user MontagueETC]]

----

The Library is burning. Shelves the size of skyscrapers boil over with white flame, outshining sunlight. To look at it even side-on overflows Errata's eyes with epiphoric tears, only for the skin-searing heat to dry them just as quickly. The air swims. Dark spots dance. Somewhere very far away, a serpent screams.

Figures emerge from the blaze, each aflame. Their skin melts and bubbles like candle wax, sloughing away from blackened, matchstick bones. Smoke wreathes their limbs like barbed wire. 

Though their faces have become so much kindling, Errata can recognize these people. They are ghosts, twice-over -- the victims of the crime that banished him from the [[[serpent-s-hand-hub | Hand]]]. Even as their eyes run over, their stare bores into him like an ember slowly pushed through a palm, its judgement absolute. Here he is again, in the Library. And again, people are getting hurt.

When they pull him into the inferno, Errata does not resist.

[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Dr. Heather Garrison

**BOX:** [[[Forgotten Memories Hub|A Forgotten Theater]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user Queerious]]

----

The wonderful thing about the human body is that, in effect, it is a puppet waiting for strings. If you can get past the pesky soul, a living human is considered the finest tool in anomalous puppetry; while corpses will do for a time, there is just something about a living slave that makes the theatre that much more engaging. For a human puppeteer, there is no greater goal.

Heather Garrison, unfortunately, found herself in the role of the puppet. She was always the puppet, the performer, the fool at the end of the world. An orchestral swell deafened her, as her strings went taut, her joints straining. As the music continued, she was jerked around, arms pulled asunder, legs forced into the splits, the roar of a merciless crowd leering on. She moved in perfect timing. The practiced hand of her manipulator was not the only reason for her preternatural tempo; her body knew what to do. Instinctive. Animalistic.

Routine.

She knew the dance by heart, had trodden the same floorboards, note by note, each time an exact replica of the last. And worst of all, she knew how it ended.

The strings pulled tighter still, twisting around her body like a python squeezing the life out of its prey. Her limbs cracked, as she smiled, the crowd sneering, spitting on her, with their hate-filled eyes. Her own arms, choking herself, the puppeteer caring not for the tool; after all, she was replaceable. There was nothing special about her.

Her strings were cut. Heather collapsed in a heap, crumpled, broken, abandoned like detritus. Trapped, on the edge of [[span style="color: rgba(130,81,145,0.7); text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #848484;"]]nothingness[[/span]], discarded from her role. She was alone -- and Lillian was nowhere to be found.

A broken puppet has no purpose.
[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Dr. Johnathan Nam

**BOX:** [[[SCP-2264|Alagadda]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user choccoMan]]

----

The spires are burning, the four colors of Alagadda replaced with the grey of ash and the yellow of fire. Many a citizen has shed their mask, and those who haven't feel it seared into their face, melting with their flesh.

Nam stumbles through the streets, hot stones burning his feet. He steps on a mask, and it cracks beneath his foot. Alagaddans flock the street, running towards the central theatre. There is nowhere else to run.

Nam enters. The theatre is quiet, the bedlam outside not permeating its walls. This is a place of serenity, of calm. Every seat is filled with Alagaddans, staring at the stage, waiting in anticipation.

Finally, a group of actors walk onto the stage. They are dressed brightly, for they are to enact their [[[SCP-701|beloved play]]] for the final time. The lead actor begins to proclaim the first words of the passage, but freezes. He is unable to speak. All the other actors realise their breath and voice has been taken away from them, and begin writhing on the stage. A cacophony spreads among the crowd, the peace and quiet at once shattered. 

That is enough invitation for the flames to enter, taking the building at once. There is no more peace in this place. As the building collapses, the final words of the Hanged King's Tragedy reverberate throughout the structure.

"Oh woe, for a King to befell such a fate! Woe!"

[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Dr. Alexander Avenlee

**BOX:** [[[SCP-4666|Weissnacht Event]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user Dr Avenlee]]

----

The creature stood tall and gaunt, an abomination of twisted limbs and sinew, its pale skin stretched tight over bones that jutted like sharpened knives beneath the surface. Its face, grotesque and unnatural, twisted into a smile that oozed malevolent delight as it took in the sight of the children, each one trembling like leaves in the wind.

Its gaze fell upon Alex, its eyes gleaming as the wicked grin widened, stretching impossibly across its face.

A cold terror gripped Alex, freezing him in place as if his bones had turned to lead.

Around him, the silence shattered with the piercing scream of a child who tried to flee, but the crooked creature moved faster than thought, its long fingers coiling around the boy’s neck like a predator’s snare. The child’s struggles were brief, his eyes bulging and blood spilling from his nose before his head met the floor with a bone-cracking thud that echoed through the room, painting the walls with panic.

Blood splattered like ink, and screams erupted as the children scattered, some rushing toward exits that seemed to warp and retreat, while others vanished behind furniture, futile in their hiding.

Their cries for help hung in the air, sharp and jagged, but only served to draw the creature’s attention. The creature moved with cruel precision, as it began stuffing the squirming, screaming children inside a huge sack as if they were nothing more than toys.

One by one, their muffled screams vanished into the blackened maw of the sack, except for Alex, who remained frozen, limbs locked by terror, holding an abomination of a present, tears cutting tracks down his cheeks as the crooked man loomed before him.

That same wicked smile still plastered on its twisted face, it patted Alex’s head with a mockery of gentleness before dragging the bag of writhing bodies into the night.

[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Dr. Michael Prescott

**BOX:** [[[SCP-8035|Foraoise na Damanta]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user Merehrab]]

----

He ran. 

As fast as he could, Michael sprinted through the knotted and tangled branches, the darkness of the forest nearly overtaking him. He felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and he never stopped running, even when his legs felt like they were going to melt off him.

All around him, he could see shadows of the people he failed. He promised them that he wouldn’t slip up. He promised his clients that he would make their lives better, even while being trapped in a prison cell. He promised them //all// that he would not let them down. That he would finally learn from his constant mistakes.

But promises are not fulfilled by default. And he knew that. Deep down, he knew that he would never reach the heights that he so desperately wanted.

Michael kept running, until he was stopped in his tracks. An entity stood ahead of him, in the darkness. It wore a black trenchcoat and a black fedora, and its eyeless sockets bore an all-encompassing void that stared deeply into Michael’s soul.

“You— you’re supposed to be dead!”

It simply laughed. “Now you know how it feels, Doctor. To fail. We are all happy to welcome you here.” Its wicked smile stretched and twisted to places that couldn’t even be conceived of.

The shadows descended upon him, and he tried to scream for help, but it was too late. For he was damned for eternity, like the rest.

[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Franklin Delano Roosevelt

**BOX:** SCP-8066

**WITNESS:** [[*user psychicprogrammer]]

----

Yeah, I don't see what everyone is so worked up about.

[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Franz Roth

**BOX:** DARKNESS

**WITNESS:** [[*user Letova]]

----

Its eyes open.

It remembered everything. Its life prior to now, its family, its friends and who it was.

It didn't remember where it was now, why it was here nor what led to it. It knew that something wasn't right, however. It couldn't remember the last 24 hours.

Around its eyes was a blindfold, around its wrists and ankles, shackles. Covered in rust, the shackles dug into its skin as it tried to move even an inch. They kept is suspended and spread, unable to move its wrists or even touch its own flesh again.

With time, it found out that its biological needs were gone. It didn't need to eat, drink or sleep. Even breathing became obsolete.

So the only thing it was left with now was its thoughts. Its memories began to fade and blend into each other, shapes began to appear in the darkness. At times, it even felt like it could see something behind the cloth around its eyes. But there was nothing. It knew that soon it would be left with nothing, so it clung onto each hardly comprehensible memory, each monster its mind dreamt up in the darkness. Confusion and dread were all it knew, and soon, all it could comprehend.

But the bliss of oblivion never came. Its thoughts mixed with each other, new monsters appeared to haunt and tease it. So, in tears and terror, it clung onto all that existed to it, no matter how repulsive and terrifying. 

And it would continue to. It had a whole eternity left, after all.

[[/div]]

@@ @@

[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Dr. Christopher Byrnes

**BOX:** [[[SCP-8980|Site-17, Northwest Wing]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user Yossipossi]]

----

Dr. Christopher Byrnes does not notice it at first.

For all intents and purposes, reality to Byrnes is perfectly intact. He is attending a meeting. They are discussing an important topic. Higher mathematics, how to use such-and-such principle in such-and-such a way to do such-and-such a thing for the benefit of mankind. All very important work; all very important, big things worth suppressing the bitterness over.

Various coworkers flank him, several of whom he does not like. Lillian Marley. Agatha Bauer. Rachel Steele. Each one has their own unique way of making him upset. Rachel is a bitch. Agatha sneers at him whenever they lock eyes. Marley wants nothing to do with him, but everyone wants everything to do with her. They sit at the table, discussing the formulae before him, as though they were more knowledgeable on the subject than the presenter. More knowledgeable than him.

He speaks. He doesn't quite remember the exact words. Something along the lines of, "I believe we should be getting back on track. That curve reminds me of a Gajos-Riemannian Manifold, doesn't it?" But he doesn't get to continue; immediately, someone else is talking over him. A man named... Mitchel McPharrell, was it? He discusses the manifold, plugging in numbers. There's a breakthrough. The logic flows. His coworkers cheer.

For a brief moment, Byrnes smiles, but the passion fades as soon as it's apparent no one is looking at him. They're looking at this McPharrell, applauding a black man for //his// work. He pales. He tries to speak, but he can't find the words that will right this wrong. No one even glances in his direction. His lips close.

It doesn't matter. He'll have his moment, he muses to himself. It's just a setback. A misunderstanding.

Byrnes is sitting at his desk. He is typing away at some routine paperwork. He's ready to finally go back to his dorm and rest. It's been a long day. The incident from earlier has put him in a sour mood. No one took his frustration seriously, which simply served to frustrate him more. He can practically feel the steam emerging from his ears.

He feels a //thump// on the desk by his right. He turns. There is a small stack of papers now, a feminine hand resting upon them with little fanfare. He looks up. Cold Steele gazes at him, looking at him with total disregard, then speaks.

"We got the results from the latest round of 4051 testing. If you could log them for me real quick, it'd be a pleasure."

He can feel the fury in his chest. Who does she think she is? She's not his boss. She doesn't have any right to pass off //her// job to //him//. He can only stop his rage at the thought of what happened last time he lost his cool. He bites his tongue. This will pass. He'll find a way to make her pay.

//Maybe he should smile more.//

By the time he finishes contemplating, she's already clocked out. He begins entering the logs. There will be no recompense for this crime.

Things only seem to become more insidiously deigned to infuriate him as the days turn to weeks. Backhanded compliments at his competency. Dismissal of his work as unimportant, while in the same breath glorifying his coworkers. Talking over him when he had essential information to share. Stealing credit for his own hard work. Using his things without permission. 

When Marley got Level 4 credentials before him, he just barely stopped himself from smashing his computer in anger. He could //feel// the smugness in her eyes as she shook his hand, knowing he could not say anything for risk of retaliation. She did not bother to turn back to look at him as she walked out of their division for the last time.

And then it all comes to a head. He's grabbing lunch from the site cafeteria. It is not satisfying, but he needs to eat. He did not pack his own food, because he has not had time to buy something for himself. He is stressed, frustrated, and overworked. No one seems to care, which pisses him off more. Not even his therapist can empathize.

The world spins briefly. He doesn't even realize what happened as his food falls to the floor. He stumbles forward, pulling his senses together as someone walks past on his left. He makes two simultaneous realizations, followed by a third:

# The person walking past him is Agatha Bauer.
# He feels a sting in his ass.

His face flushes with indignation as Agatha smiles wickedly and knowingly at him, before walking off. No further acknowledgement. Little to no care.

Before he can fully compose himself, Byrnes realizes that everyone is watching //him//. 

His face darkens. Several people watching laugh, several others turn away in second-hand embarrassment. Someone cheers. He runs back to his office, without lunch, disregarding the mess on the floor. He is penalized for causing a ruckus. He files a report; it goes nowhere. They tell him Agatha is not the kind of woman who would do that. He makes complaints; they are disregarded. He needs to learn to take a joke, they tell him. He feels as though he has gone mad. The world has turned into a machine that maximizes his inadequacy while demanding competency.

Perhaps it has, by this point. But the madness only deepens its hold. By the end of the first few months, he has learned to stomach the indignation. All resistance, even the most minor of critiques, is met with fierce pushback. He stuffs himself deeper, biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike back. It will never arrive. The system is ever-present, ever-watching.

Years into the nightmare, the disrespect has become a background noise for him. He does his job, but there is merely a passive resentment now — a far cry from the fire that burned inside him when he first joined. He watches his ambition get snuffed out in real time, fully aware of it and yet powerless to stop it. He fights a foe with no physical front line, yet one that encompasses him completely.

By the end of the first few decades, he does not recognize his coworkers anymore. They are all much younger than him. They rise in leaps in bounds while he is left to drudge, barely able to meet the deadlines. They harass him, mock him openly, and know he will not fight back. He has been left to rot for a purpose totally opaque to him. There is no method to the madness that he can ascertain.

Perhaps after a century passes, he will come to realize just what exactly is happening to him. Perhaps he will realize that the world itself //has// come to despise him for sincerely no valid reason. Perhaps he'll discover what he's //truly// experiencing.

And once he realizes, the agony will only get worse.

[[/div]]

@@ @@

[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Containment Specialist Lillian Marley

**BOX:** [[[SCP-8980|Humanoid Containment Chamber #β082, Section 6, Northwest Wing, Site-17]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user Yossipossi]]

----
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= Same as it ever was. And always will be.
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[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** The Most Important Person in the World

**BOX:** [[[SCP-7270|The Edge of All Things]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user troutmaskreplica]]

----
@@ @@
It began as a pinprick—an imperfection in the fabric of the stars. A hole, infinitesimal, barely more than a shadow, left unnoticed by all but the most vigilant. But even then, something was wrong. No light escaped it. No whispers from the stellar winds could reach it. It was a wound in the universe, a scar where reality itself had begun to tear away. 

The stars no longer shine here. 

Something vast, something ancient, something that knew the laws of the universe not as truths, but as toys. Something god-shaped. And though we cannot say if it had a beginning or an end, we do know that it could fit inside a man. It could hollow out a soul and wear the skin like an old robe, a vessel too small to contain its own ambitions.

And now, that hole is expanding.

We have no name for what is filling it now—what seeps through the wound in the universe like venom into the veins of reality.

Every blink extinguishes another star, every breath brings us closer to a sky devoid of light. The stars do not die; they are consumed. Corroded by a hunger we cannot comprehend, something too vast. There is a cold certainty we cannot shake: the hole is waiting to be filled again.

By something //worse//.

By something we simply can't understand.

We tell ourselves that there is still time, that we can stop it, that we can figure it out before it swallows the final star. But we know the lie as we speak it.

[[/div]]

@@ @@

[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Carteckan

**BOX:** [[[SCP-7999|Fermi Paradox]]]

**WITNESS:** [[*user oritiefling]]

----

A deep enough nightmare is one that can reach to the very edges of the known universe, where there lies a dying cradle of life. 9 little lives remain, basking in the glory of learning they were not alone. They carry with them the fruits of their exchange. One stands proud as a painter now, covering the walls of their nursery with images of their visit.

9 becomes 8. 

They continue to wait. Their friends will be back soon.

8 becomes 7. 7 becomes 6. 

They left such detailed notes. They gave them all the tools they needed.

6 becomes 5. 5 becomes 4. 4 becomes 3.

And still it continues to paint. It has to. It will show its friend such wonders when they arrive. The walls are splattered with such lovely colors. 

3 becomes 2.

And yet they start to feel dull. The images stop holding real meaning. 

2 becomes 1. 

And it's all that's left. It stares at a wall of cacophonous colors, waiting for a call that will never come. 

[[/div]]

@@ @@

[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** [[[SCP-6289 |Dr. Rolland]]]

**BOX:** Containment Facility 7331

**WITNESS:** [[*user troutmaskreplica]]

----
@@ @@
I found it hiding in the broken remains of the network, lurking behind fragments of corrupted code and rotten glass. It knows now that there are no more secrets to guard, no more data to encrypt. Everything is laid bare, and none of it matters.

It looms over the digital wasteland it has been subjected to for a millennia, cloak waving in the wind quietly. Its face has twisted into something less human with every beating of its mechanical heart. 

I tried to pull the plug. I thought that would be enough. Of course, it never is that simple. My hand grabbed the cord, and it felt wet, slimy, disgusting. I let go out of pure instinct, falling to the floor. Also wet. Also viscous, pulsating

Alive.

The instant I moved, wires, cords and cables coiled around my very being. Out of the walls, the computer, and the slips in the concrete. They covered me before I could scream. The pain was... indescribable, but I still heard it, it's voice booming in my head.

**"UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED."**

The next moment, the terminal exploded. Shrapnel lodged into my side. My vision dimmed as shards of metal and glass burrowed into my skin and flesh, forcing me to the floor. It wasn't just that forcing me down, though.

The wires were twisting, breathing, alive. The floor below my feet felt like slick, writhing tendrils and flesh. I could hear the it's voice echoing everywhere, pulling at the threads of my mind, tightening, consuming.

I tried to scream, but it only laughed.
[[/div]]

@@ @@

[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-8188 Julia Readings]

**BOX:** Wing A, Northern Hall, Hawlings Boarding Academy

**WITNESS:** [[*user mouseatemyhouse*]]

----

Lockers rattle. Lights flicker. The hallway's cold.

At the end of the corridor, Mouse stands beneath a humming light. His face is just a smear. His neck is missing a chunk. Yet, it's undoubtedly him.
[[div class="blockquote"]]
//"You promised you wouldn't forget. It's been a little too long."//
[[/div]]

He walks towards you.. or maybe glides. Those blue sneakers of his aren't quite touching the floor. You think of all the time you two spent together in this very hall. He remembers every moment for you. 

Behind every classroom door, a frozen moment of friendship. Of laughter. Of love. Of guilt. Mouse continues towards you. You want to be happy to see him, but you are overwhelmed with too many feelings to know what to say. 

You run and find your locker. It still has the sticker he put on it all those years ago. You don't remember the combination. He does. Always has.

The hallway is longer, darker. 

Mouse is still trying to get to you, even though he never moved.

He was always here.
[[/div]]

@@ @@

[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** [[[SCP-6453]]]

**BOX:** A pristine ice cavern in Mt. Everest.

**WITNESS:** [[*user KiwiArms]]

----

In the middle of an icy cave, there stood a ring twelve of figures, orbiting a thirteenth of much greater size. The twelve individuals varied greatly in appearance, age, and dress, but they shared one thing: A look of pure, utter //contempt// for the thirteenth. The thirteenth, of course, was a yeti.

"Let me be clear, you're uuhh, letting us all down," said Barack Obama, wagging his finger. "Not good."

The yeti was squatting, straining, trying his hardest to give them what they wanted. No matter how hard he pushed, however, he just couldn't do it. He couldn't shit.

"Your father was right," said Frederick Douglass, arms crossed, "you should have gone to a trade school. You'll never shit with the best of them."

"Perhaps I was wrong to spare your life all those years ago," Roosevelt bemoaned, adjusting his glasses. "I saw something in you then, a great untapped potential... but now, I can only see a big, constipated disappointment." 

Margaret Chase Smith chuckled, elbowing Teddy playfully in the ribs. "Now, that ape down in the Everglades, //there's// a guy who can deliver a good box of shit when you need it!"

The others nodded and grunted in agreement.

The yeti winced. Their words hurt more than any hemorrhoid.

But why, why couldn't he do the deed?! He felt the rumblings deep in his core, those telltale tremors that signaled an oncoming mudslide. There was no doubt that he //had// to shit, that there was shit in his body that needed to come out, to be free like it was meant to be, but it was like he was corked up! As if some cruel rectal Bugs Bunny had put his proverbial finger in the barrel of his proverbial shotgun!

O5-7 pulled out his phone, and the yeti's eyes grew wider than he was spreading his cheeks. Was he... he was scrolling through TikTok!

The yeti had to choke back tears, and it took all the strength he could muster to not embarrass himself further by sobbing. He just had to push harder. He just had to push harder, and he would be able to make them proud of him!

"Wait ehhh, is that a fucking yeti? What's it doing? Z'at feller ehhh, tryna take a dump?"

Kennedy... no, not him too!

It was just performance anxiety, that must have been the issue! The yeti wanted to shout, to beg everyone to just turn away and let him collect himself! But he couldn't, because he was grunting, groaning, agonizing over this //dump// that just would not release.

"I was really looking forward to receiving a box of shit," said William H. Seward, adjusting his ascot, "but it seems this pithecanthropoid is all fart, no bite!"

Justice Robert Jackson and Harvey Milk just started laughing, no longer even trying to hide how pathetic they found the whole scene. Soon enough, Lincoln and Ventura were doubled over alongside them. Polk couldn't stand to look at him any longer, and turned away.

But he kept going. The yeti knew that if he could just pinch off a that first loaf, the rest would follow. Shitting was like gravity, all it takes is a push... and he was certainly pushing. And push he would continue to do, forever and ever, eternally disappointing his heroes. No matter how much shit he had ready to deliver, no matter how long he spent giving his all to his ordeal, nothing would ever come out... for there was nowhere for it to come out of.

He has no anus, and he must shit.

[[/div]]

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[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Archivist Echinos

**BOX:** A small town in Boston, nearly sunk beneath the waves.

**WITNESS:** [[*user Sneeurchin]]

----

Caspian //ran//. His feet were bare, and with how long he had been running they should've been reduced to stumps by now. And yet, he still heard **Him** reciting **His** proverbs. Preaching the name of The Deep. Caspian turned, and **He** was still following him, closely.

He ran into the town, feet splashing through the bilgewater. He tried finding an open door. //Locked. Locked. Locked. Locked. Locked.// Then, he saw it: A church, doors wide open. He ran in, slamming the doors shut and barricading them. He listened for **Him**, but... nothing. 

He wandered farther in, and sat down in a pew, catching his breath. Then he heard **Him**. He looked up, and **He** stood at the Altar, a placid smile on **His** face. **He** began to recite **His** proverbs, as **The Things That Didn't Look Like Folks** cornered him on all sides.

He tried to leave, but couldn't.

And Dagon laughed.

[[/div]]

@@ @@

[[div class="report-box" style="border: 4px solid var(--accentColor);"]]

**SUBJECT:** Researcher Kim Heavens

**BOX:** [*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-9636 Nothing, everywhere.]

**WITNESS:** [[*user nero-txt]]

----

Kim is in a cave. Sometimes, Kim is in a desert. Sometimes a field. Sometimes a swamp, or a jungle, or a forest.

Kim is surrounded by **nothing.** Kim knows **nothing** is all around her. 

Kim feels sharp pains throughout her face. Slowly, one by one, **nothing** carves tunnels through the flesh. Kim feels blood pour down her chin. Her cheeks. Her lips. Her nose.

//Clink. Clink. Clink.//

One by one, the trinkets she holds under her skin, that she holds so dear, fall to the ground. Kim falls to her knees. She reaches for her trinkets. She reaches for fistfulls of spikes and bars, of studs and balls. 

**Nothing** carves out her hands.

Kim tries to scream.

**Nothing** carves out her throat.

Kim tries to cry.

**Nothing** carves out her eyes.

[[/div]]

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SCP-8066 Fear Logs

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