I has having some technical issues (my computer was infected like a thai hooker) so I switched over to Ubuntu and in the whole transitional period and figuring out what all I needed to do to make things work (Wine, and whatnot) I've kinda completely neglected this blog.
I'll get back into the swing of posting... eventually. First I need to remember where I left my file of pasta and stop being so busy. =D
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
SCP-627: Companion Cube
Item #: SCP-627
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures:
Item SCP-627 is to be kept in a soundproof locked container at all times. Personnel interacting with SCP-627 must be equipped with headgear that blocks all outside noise. At no time should the headgear be removed in the presence of SCP-627. Failure to comply will result in immediate termination. Personnel are advised to approach SCP-627 in groups no smaller than three persons.
Description:
Recovered from Site 3-A in late 2007. Item SCP-627 is believed to be part of a "training course" for employees of Site 3-A. It is a metallic cube-like object approximately 1.5 cubic meters in volume. Each face is symmetrically patterned with ridges and plating, and a circular bump in the center of each side is decorated with a cardioid emblem in a rose or magenta hue.
Subjects approaching SCP-627 report that it appears to be sentient and capable of speech. Many find it nearly impossible to separate themselves from it and must be forcibly removed from the area. Some subjects are able to recover from this; many are drawn into a sort of depression, as though they have lost a beloved companion.
It is interesting to note that physical examinations of the object reveal no obvious method of phonetic output, and that sound-dampening equipment has proven effective against the hallucinations brought on by exposure to SCP-627.
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures:
Item SCP-627 is to be kept in a soundproof locked container at all times. Personnel interacting with SCP-627 must be equipped with headgear that blocks all outside noise. At no time should the headgear be removed in the presence of SCP-627. Failure to comply will result in immediate termination. Personnel are advised to approach SCP-627 in groups no smaller than three persons.
Description:
Recovered from Site 3-A in late 2007. Item SCP-627 is believed to be part of a "training course" for employees of Site 3-A. It is a metallic cube-like object approximately 1.5 cubic meters in volume. Each face is symmetrically patterned with ridges and plating, and a circular bump in the center of each side is decorated with a cardioid emblem in a rose or magenta hue.
Subjects approaching SCP-627 report that it appears to be sentient and capable of speech. Many find it nearly impossible to separate themselves from it and must be forcibly removed from the area. Some subjects are able to recover from this; many are drawn into a sort of depression, as though they have lost a beloved companion.
It is interesting to note that physical examinations of the object reveal no obvious method of phonetic output, and that sound-dampening equipment has proven effective against the hallucinations brought on by exposure to SCP-627.
Baby Dolls
In rural southern Illinois a toy company began selling "realistic" baby dolls to expectant mothers. But apparently after the mother had her child the toy baby would start crying. Eventually the "rocking motion" advertised to calm it down wouldn't work, and you couldn't get it to stop without shaking it. Eventually when it started crying the parent would have to beat it, and the beatings and thrashings would have to get harder and harder to get it to be quiet. The only thing that seemed to shut the baby doll up permanently was the bash its head against the wall to destroy whatever mechanism triggered the crying. On more than one occasion though, neighbors called the authorities to report child abuse, and when the police arrived they found the bloody remains of infants smeared across the walls and the floor. In most cases the mother couldn't understand why the police were there, she just "got rid of the stupid doll" as she rocked a baby-shaped bundle in her arms.
A Houseboat
In a private terminal at the Port of Boston there is a houseboat. This houseboat has been anchored there, permanently, for at least 50 years. The eccentric owner has maintained all fees and taxes and is in good standing with the Port Authority.
Still, even if the owner wasn't financially responsible, no one would ask them to depart. Despite the owner's friendly, hospitable, if odd nature, there is a persistent air of unease around the boat and the area of the Port surrounding.
Very few people have taken the owner up on offers of hospitality, but those who do recount a wholly unbelievable tale: When you step into the houseboat, it's as if you're sent backwards 50 years in time. Looking out windows depicts a cityscape of antiquity and the television receives live broadcasts of programs of the era (including news programs). If you look out the open door, you see the city as it stands today. When the door closes, you can see the 50 year old skyline through the port opening.
Some visitors who spend time with the owner notice something particularly disturbing: an almost uncanny resemblance to their host, despite obvious age differences. Though this is odd, the owner is friendly and trustworthy (ignoring the air of unease most feel), so it isn't surprising if casual friendships build between a guest and the proprietor.
All this would, of course, be very strange and worthy of note, but dismissed as some form of elaborate hoax or illusion, if it weren't for one additional detail. Whenever someone elects to spend the night in this houseboat after an evening of conversation and a few drinks, they are never heard from again.
When the guest awakens in the morning, the owner is nowhere to be found and suddenly, the city skyline never changes back to its contemporary appearance when exiting the boat. Under the bed there is a briefcase full of $100 bills with a letter stapled to a list.
The letter simply reads, "You have 50 years to follow these instructions if you wish to free yourself from this hell. The clock is ticking. Get to work."
Still, even if the owner wasn't financially responsible, no one would ask them to depart. Despite the owner's friendly, hospitable, if odd nature, there is a persistent air of unease around the boat and the area of the Port surrounding.
Very few people have taken the owner up on offers of hospitality, but those who do recount a wholly unbelievable tale: When you step into the houseboat, it's as if you're sent backwards 50 years in time. Looking out windows depicts a cityscape of antiquity and the television receives live broadcasts of programs of the era (including news programs). If you look out the open door, you see the city as it stands today. When the door closes, you can see the 50 year old skyline through the port opening.
Some visitors who spend time with the owner notice something particularly disturbing: an almost uncanny resemblance to their host, despite obvious age differences. Though this is odd, the owner is friendly and trustworthy (ignoring the air of unease most feel), so it isn't surprising if casual friendships build between a guest and the proprietor.
All this would, of course, be very strange and worthy of note, but dismissed as some form of elaborate hoax or illusion, if it weren't for one additional detail. Whenever someone elects to spend the night in this houseboat after an evening of conversation and a few drinks, they are never heard from again.
When the guest awakens in the morning, the owner is nowhere to be found and suddenly, the city skyline never changes back to its contemporary appearance when exiting the boat. Under the bed there is a briefcase full of $100 bills with a letter stapled to a list.
The letter simply reads, "You have 50 years to follow these instructions if you wish to free yourself from this hell. The clock is ticking. Get to work."
Persausion
It’s been 2 weeks since this whole thing started.
It all started with a tanker accident. It was all over the news. Everyone thought it was just another oil spill. There were plenty of volunteers. Plenty of people wanting to help the poor defenseless animals. Plenty of victims. Within hours of the tanker accident, it started happening. The animals had gone crazy, they were scratching and biting the clean up volunteers. They said that it was an adverse effect to whatever was in that tanker.
Rescue workers were still trying to get the crew out of the ship. They could hear screaming inside. Screams to open the doors. But that’s when it all went to hell. As soon as they cut the door out.
There was 6 minutes of broadcast before it went silent. 6 minutes of screaming and agony. The ship crew attacked the rescue workers like rabid baboons. Breaking bones and tearing flesh. The people on the shore weren’t fairing any better. Those that had been attacked by animals were attacking everyone else. It was worse than any war zone report, it was sheer brutality, and yet the broadcast still went on for 6 minutes. 6 minutes and then blank faces. Nobody could explain what was happening. They tried to continue with regular news, the economy, the weather, a cute human interest story, but they couldn’t make us unsee what we saw.
I tried to continue with my regular existence but every time I switched on the news or walked by a news stand it was there. This big mystery. They had some explanations, some kind of infection, brain parasites, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t an infection we were afraid of, it was them.
4 days after the initial report, a state of emergency was raised. And yet we’d all seen this before. Every zombie movie ever. People didn’t know who to trust. People were stockpiling food and weapons. Some tried to flee but it seems every zombie movie was right. They didn’t make it. 3 days later they arrived in my town.
I expected moans, shuffling corpses, dismemberment, but that’s where the movies lied. They ran through the streets, screaming. I remember running to my front door as fast as I could, locking, barricading, doing anything to make sure it would stay shut, and then I headed for the window. I was on the second story and I could see the carnage. They were unstoppable. They were aware.
A group of them made there way through a building across the street. They jumped straight through plate glass windows. Even the shards slicing through them made no difference, they just kept coming. My barricade wasn’t going to hold. I rushed around my flat, grabbing supplies and jamming them into the most secure room of the flat. I went back for one last look across the street, and I wish I hadn’t. In a second story window, my face met one of theirs. They knew where I was. I quickly dashed into the room and locked the door.
I don’t have any kind of panic room, or a secure basement, so the safest place I could think of was my bathroom. No windows, one door with a lock. I had filled my sink and bathtub full of water, So I could stay for a while. So I sat there in the dark room, with the distant screams in my ears.
I began to feel like I may have over-reacted, it had been 2 hours and no sign of them. It actually got quieter and I thought they had moved on. Maybe I could leave the room, get to the kitchen. Grab more food to wait it out. A crash came from the front door. The sound of someone running full force into the door and knocking down the barrier behind it. There was a couple more crashes before I knew they were inside. Rapid footsteps moving around the flat, a couple screams and then a bang on the wall beside me. My eyes were open to their widest, even in the pitch black darkness of the room. Another bang, and another. They knew I was there and they knew I was scared.
This was the zombie nightmare I had been expecting from the start. I had nowhere to run. There was only so much time before they would break in. I sat with my back to the door, hoping my extra weight would make it harder for them to get in. And then it got worse.
“why don’t you open the door?”
A voice on the opposite side of the door. No screams or moans, just a quiet, whispery voice. And then more of them.
“we’ve come for you.”
“you’ll be happier if you open the door”
“it’s not so bad…”
The whispery voices, became a cacophony of noise trying to persuade me, to break me, to fool me. I had heard that the moaning of zombies would drive people insane but this was worse, a siren call. I sat in the darkness and hoped and prayed that they’d get bored. But they don’t get bored and they don’t leave. I managed to use the mirror to peak under the door, only to be greeted by horrible unblinking eyes, blood smeared faces, screams and more horrible whispers. That was two days ago…
I don’t know what to do anymore… maybe it won’t be so bad…
Credit to Chris Stewart
It all started with a tanker accident. It was all over the news. Everyone thought it was just another oil spill. There were plenty of volunteers. Plenty of people wanting to help the poor defenseless animals. Plenty of victims. Within hours of the tanker accident, it started happening. The animals had gone crazy, they were scratching and biting the clean up volunteers. They said that it was an adverse effect to whatever was in that tanker.
Rescue workers were still trying to get the crew out of the ship. They could hear screaming inside. Screams to open the doors. But that’s when it all went to hell. As soon as they cut the door out.
There was 6 minutes of broadcast before it went silent. 6 minutes of screaming and agony. The ship crew attacked the rescue workers like rabid baboons. Breaking bones and tearing flesh. The people on the shore weren’t fairing any better. Those that had been attacked by animals were attacking everyone else. It was worse than any war zone report, it was sheer brutality, and yet the broadcast still went on for 6 minutes. 6 minutes and then blank faces. Nobody could explain what was happening. They tried to continue with regular news, the economy, the weather, a cute human interest story, but they couldn’t make us unsee what we saw.
I tried to continue with my regular existence but every time I switched on the news or walked by a news stand it was there. This big mystery. They had some explanations, some kind of infection, brain parasites, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t an infection we were afraid of, it was them.
4 days after the initial report, a state of emergency was raised. And yet we’d all seen this before. Every zombie movie ever. People didn’t know who to trust. People were stockpiling food and weapons. Some tried to flee but it seems every zombie movie was right. They didn’t make it. 3 days later they arrived in my town.
I expected moans, shuffling corpses, dismemberment, but that’s where the movies lied. They ran through the streets, screaming. I remember running to my front door as fast as I could, locking, barricading, doing anything to make sure it would stay shut, and then I headed for the window. I was on the second story and I could see the carnage. They were unstoppable. They were aware.
A group of them made there way through a building across the street. They jumped straight through plate glass windows. Even the shards slicing through them made no difference, they just kept coming. My barricade wasn’t going to hold. I rushed around my flat, grabbing supplies and jamming them into the most secure room of the flat. I went back for one last look across the street, and I wish I hadn’t. In a second story window, my face met one of theirs. They knew where I was. I quickly dashed into the room and locked the door.
I don’t have any kind of panic room, or a secure basement, so the safest place I could think of was my bathroom. No windows, one door with a lock. I had filled my sink and bathtub full of water, So I could stay for a while. So I sat there in the dark room, with the distant screams in my ears.
I began to feel like I may have over-reacted, it had been 2 hours and no sign of them. It actually got quieter and I thought they had moved on. Maybe I could leave the room, get to the kitchen. Grab more food to wait it out. A crash came from the front door. The sound of someone running full force into the door and knocking down the barrier behind it. There was a couple more crashes before I knew they were inside. Rapid footsteps moving around the flat, a couple screams and then a bang on the wall beside me. My eyes were open to their widest, even in the pitch black darkness of the room. Another bang, and another. They knew I was there and they knew I was scared.
This was the zombie nightmare I had been expecting from the start. I had nowhere to run. There was only so much time before they would break in. I sat with my back to the door, hoping my extra weight would make it harder for them to get in. And then it got worse.
“why don’t you open the door?”
A voice on the opposite side of the door. No screams or moans, just a quiet, whispery voice. And then more of them.
“we’ve come for you.”
“you’ll be happier if you open the door”
“it’s not so bad…”
The whispery voices, became a cacophony of noise trying to persuade me, to break me, to fool me. I had heard that the moaning of zombies would drive people insane but this was worse, a siren call. I sat in the darkness and hoped and prayed that they’d get bored. But they don’t get bored and they don’t leave. I managed to use the mirror to peak under the door, only to be greeted by horrible unblinking eyes, blood smeared faces, screams and more horrible whispers. That was two days ago…
I don’t know what to do anymore… maybe it won’t be so bad…
Credit to Chris Stewart
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