The house beneath SCP-7130.
| Assigned Site | Site Director | Research Head | Assigned Task Force |
| Provisional Containment Outpost ENOCHOS-01 | Dr. Trenton St. James | Dr. Trenton St. James | ATF Theta-601-ψ ("His Shared Sin") |
SPECIAL CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES
SCP-7130 is not to be absolved of its sins.
SCP-7130 is contained at its original location of discovery. Provisional Containment Outpost ENOCHOS-01 has been constructed directly underneath the anomaly in order to facilitate surveillance and observation of SCP-7130. Any changes in SCP-7130's behavior are to be immediately reported to the current lead of PROJECT ENOCHOS.
The town of Cralesford, Norwich, UK has since been unincorporated. Civilian access into the locality is to be restricted under Cover Story ω-3 ("Hazardous Material Contamination"). Motor and air traffic is to be redirected around the town.
SCP-7130's soul is to remain tethered to the material plane at the discretion of Thaumaturge η-6. Upon their death, a new thaumaturge is to succeed them (currently Thaumaturge η-7).
DESCRIPTION
SCP-7130 is the corpse of Jonathan Theodore Normag, a 57-year-old male of northern European descent. SCP-7130 is currently suspended approximately 150 meters above a small house in the town of Cralesford, Norwich, United Kingdom. All attempts to move or interact with the anomaly have failed. The body is nude and covered in a number of bruises and lacerations along its side. SCP-7130 does not show any signs of life, however, it can occasionally be observed to writhe or twitch.
The Department of Spectral Phenomena have confirmed that SCP-7130, although dead, continues to retain a soul.
ADDENDUM 7130-1 — TIMELINE OF EVENTS
Cralesford, circa 1840.
After extensive interviews with former citizens of Cralesford, the following timeline of notable events has been constructed from individual accounts:
- JUNE 2, 1986: Two neighbors of Johnathan and Thomas Normag report hearing voices and screams emerging from the Normag household. Three individuals claim to have seen an face resembling Maria Normag's staring at them in the mirror. These claims are not substantiated.
- JUNE 3, 1986: Various accounts of dreams involving a man kneeling over a body, covered in blood. One child, Mary Narimbski, inexplicably wakes up with blood on her hands. The source of the blood is unknown. Two individuals claim to have seen the body of Thomas Normag nailed to the cross at the Cralesford town church, instead of Jesus Christ. These claims are not substantiated.
- JUNE 4, 1986: Theodore Mason, a farmer, finds a flock of his cattle dead. Cause of death is found to be sudden blood loss. Two families call the police, stating that the water from their tap had been converted into blood. The police arrive at the houses but find no abnormalities. That night, at around midnight, a neighbor of the Normags reports seeing someone digging at a patch of flowers in their backyard.
- JUNE 5, 1986: Various accounts of dreams involving a writhing, screaming body slowly rising in the air. When questioned, individuals unanimously claim that the man is being punished for "crimes [they] did not commit." Thirteen individuals report hearing the voice of Maria Normag speaking to them. That night, two brothers, Peter and Lewis Gore, come running home, screaming. They claim to have witnessed "the sky splitting." The claims are not corroborated. Anna Normag, the sister of Thomas Normag, and the daughter of Jonathan Normag, departs.
- JUNE 6, 1986: SCP-7130 manifests. Witnesses report seeing the body of Jonathan Normag, bloody and emaciated, slowly ascending above his house, before stopping in midair. Foundation agents are dispatched to the location and establish preliminary containment procedures. The former citizens of Cralesford are transferred to Site-39 for questioning and subsequent amnestic treatment.
- JUNE 15, 1986: The town of Cralesford is unincorporated. The former citizens of Cralesford are released and given appropriate cover stories. The anomaly is designated SCP-7130, and proper containment is established.
- JULY 23, 1986: Provisional Containment Outpost ENOCHOS-01 is constructed. PROJECT ENOCHOS personnel successfully draft the first working iteration of PROTOCOL 801-ENOCHOS.
ADDENDUM 7130-2 — RECOVERED EVIDENCE
A number of partially-burned pages seemingly ripped from a journal were recovered from the fireplace within the house beneath SCP-7130. They have been reproduced below.
[undated]
It's been two weeks since Maria died. I won't say it hasn't been difficult. For the family, it's been fourteen days with an empty seat at dinner. For the children, fourteen days without their mother. And for me, fourteen days without my wife. The thought that there will be more… my god. I don't know what to do.
There's a certain stillness to the household, like a void, once filled by Maria's voice, or Thomas's laughter. I toss and turn in bed now, expecting to feel Maria's warm hand grasp mine, but the feeling never comes. I rarely get even a wink of sleep. There's now a cold space where she used to be. I don't know whether to laugh or cry or scream or do all of it at once.
I don't think I've felt pain like this before.
I was barely five when my father died. I don't think I was old enough to even process it at the time— just a blur of different places, of different people. I only remember him being there one day… and the next day, not.
And I remember the quiet. The stillness. After he died, my mom used to leave me at home, alone, for hours at a time. I remember searching through the empty house, looking for my dad, until I got tired and just sat and peeled paint off the walls. Those nights I usually wouldn't even have dinner. Just some mayonnaise and peanuts. Sounds disgusting, but it was all I had.
It feels horrible to say, but I think I hated her. She was cold and distant, and when she wasn't cold and distant, she was a drunken, angry, sobbing mess. Fainting on the sofa and screaming at me in between her naps. The first thing I did when we had Anna was promise myself to never be like her. I don't think I even cried at her funeral.
Parlow told me to try to write. [Text damaged.] not a writer, but I trust him. It can't make it any worse.
I think Anna is slowly healing— I would be lying if I said she isn't the strongest of out of all of us. Thomas took it the hardest, I think. The first day, I doubt he even believed me when I told him the news. It took him until the next morning to realize. He spent the whole day sobbing. I expect it must pain him to imagine the countless walks that they will never share, and her warm embrace that he will never feel again. It pains me to see him hurt, too.
He stopped crying yesterday. It's just silence now. I [Text damaged.] is over. Her last days have come and gone.
There's nothing left to do.
[Text damaged.]
05/12/1986
We had the funeral yesterday. Buried her in the backyard, next to that patch of flowers she always loved. I dug the hole and Thomas carried her in. It seemed fitting; he was always the closest with her. I don't think I could have done it, either.
I don't know. Seeing her there made me remember the day I met her; it was in a library. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by books. I remember the first time I saw her face, as she looked up from the tome she was so engrossed in. I don't even remember what book I was checking out that day, the only thing that mattered then and there was her. I don't know what I'd have done differently if I knew that one day I would be digging the hole she would be buried in. I don't think it'd have made a difference. Isn't that something.
After the guests [Text damaged.]
It was a quiet evening— we had a small dinner and went to bed early. It has been two weeks and yet I still made one too many portions of fish. Anna gave the last piece to the dog.
I did the laundry for the first time since Maria passed. She used to do it all: the washing, the folding, all of it. I don't know how she managed.
Her old clothes were still in the wash. I didn't know what to do with them. It didn't seem right to wash them again, but it didn't seem right to throw them away, either. I wish I could say I kept them. A stronger man than I would have, probably. I had Anna drop them off at the church down the street. Maybe they'll find some good in it, or at least some other feeling than grief. Maybe.
Parlow and Trent came by at around eight and left their condolences. They said the usual. The "I'm so sorry" and "you must be going through so much," as if they know the pain of having everything you once loved stripped away all at once. Well, still love. It's hard to love something once it's been ravaged by its own self and buried in the dirt, becoming nothing more than a name on a tombstone and food for the earth. Or maybe I'm just scared to love something I know will never be able to love me back. It's an interesting thought. Either way, [Text damaged.]
[undated]
[Text damaged.] and Thomas's grief has still not yet abated. He was planning on enlisting over in Norwich today; clearly that's no longer on his mind. He spent the day in bed, quiet and unmoving the whole time. Or at least, while I was in there. Whenever I left, to use the toilet or get a drink of water or something, I swear I could hear him sobbing, maybe talking to someone in there. I don't know. I couldn't quite hear it. I'm beginning to worry for his health, too. He refused breakfast this morning— I don't know how much longer he can take it. I sat with him for hours by his bed, pleading with him to just eat something, but he didn't do anything, didn't say anything. He doesn't really talk much, anymore, either. He just stares at me with this pained look on his face. I suppose grief affects us all in odd ways. He is no different.
Nowadays, I barely see Thomas smile, let alone laugh. As childish as it feels to say, I miss the old times, before… before everything. Now, the mornings are quiet and still— Anna and I eat breakfast in silence at the now-empty table, and Thomas stumbles downstairs at noon; if he gets up at all. The dog still goes to his room to ask him to walk or play, but it seems nothing can bring him out of his stupor. The newfound quiet in the mornings is something new, something different. The stillness of the air, once filled by the soft tones and laughter of Thomas and Maria, the dog running around the kitchen in excitement as the pair cooked breakfast in the mornings, is piercing. I don't know what to do; whether to let him continue like this or force him back to normal. I don't want to try.
Whenever I look at his face, I see Maria's face reflected in it, just as she was near her end, with her visage becoming thinner and thinner as she slowly succumbed. He has her eyes, and he has that same smile; though it's been missing lately. I can't bear to see him so wrecked— oh, only God knows the things I would do just to see him smile one more time. I can't lose him too, not after Maria. I— I don't know what to do.
Thomas will recover, I am sure. He just needs more time. We all need more time.
[Text damaged.] during the night. I suppose it must have been the dog or something, but it didn't sound like it. [Text damaged.]
[undated]
[Text damaged.] could not get any sleep. The bed was cold without another body in it. Whatever I do, I see naught but Maria's face, as it was the day Thomas carried her into the earth. I see her face in Thomas's too, etched into his features like a wretched facsimile of herself.
Speaking of Thomas, I heard Thomas's voice during the night. Praying, from the sound of it. I didn't disturb him— I don't think he knew I was awake. The [Text damaged.] We're going to church tomorrow, anyway. Perhaps that's what he needs to overcome his grief.
Thomas didn't eat today. I tried everything: chicken, crackers, potato fries, nothing. He even refused any fruit— that used to work when he was sick as a little boy, but he wouldn't even have a bite. Thomas used to be an eater— he would finish his dinners so fast I used to wonder if he even tasted the food at all.
I went to the market today with Anna to get some eggs and carrots. I didn't know how much to get. Maria used to chastise me whenever I got the groceries, she said I got too much food. It used to piss me off. But now? I can't imagine being mad, or angry, or… anything. I got half a dozen. Between Anna and I, I don't know if we can even finish that.
The lady at the market asked where Maria was. I told her; her reaction was the same as everyone's. Shock— then sadness. Most people don't know what to say, other than a quiet "I'm so sorry." She offered to let us take the groceries free of charge; I declined. I do not need help, I told her. I do not need pity. It hurts enough without people making a fuss about it all.
When we came home, Thomas was gone. Anna found him in the basement, huddled over an old box of Maria's possessions, desperately searching for something inside it, from the look of it. I carried him back upstairs in my arms. I went back and looked in that box once Thomas was back upstairs, safe in his bed. Whatever he was looking for, I don't think he could have found it. It was empty.
[undated]
Went to church this morning. Everyone was quiet around us. They left their sympathies and kind words, and told us that we would be in their prayers. To be honest, it kind of ticked me off. "What for?", I thought. No amount of prayer, no amount of worship, will bring Maria back. I know that. We know that. I thanked them for their kindness and moved on.
[Text damaged.]
[Text damaged.] and help Anna pack for her departure. She wishes to leave as soon as possible. I do not blame her. Life's been… well, a somber affair here, even weeks after Maria's passing. Perhaps that's what Anna needs, to move on. Perhaps that's what I need, too. I tell myself that I am trying, but in my heart I know that that isn't true.
And as for Thomas… his isn't getting any better. Worse, perhaps. He looks paler and paler, weaker and weaker, every time I look at him. His face is thin and gaunt, red and puffy circles surrounding his eyes like wounds. I would not be surprised if part of why Anna wishes to leave so soon is him. In his grief, he has only grown more angry, more desperate. I tried to offer him some food, some company, but every time I ask he only gets more impatient, more mutinous. I wish there was something I could say, something I could do to… put him right, to let him know that it will all be okay, someday. It breaks my heart to see him suffer, and it breaks it more knowing that there is nothing I can do to put it right. I am at a loss. The joy of his life was Maria, and despite the unfairness of it all, she's gone. And there is nothing I can do, nothing he can do to bring her back. [Text damaged.] is acceptance.
I don't want to be like my mother. I don't want Thomas to think of me the same way, to remember nothing but a cold, distant father who did nothing to help when he was at his worst. I wish there was something I could do. I wish I could hug him tight, tell him that I love him. But it seems nothing I do helps. He only becomes more despairing, more desperate every time I try to comfort him, every time I try to hold him close. He and Anna are all I have left of this family, and I do not know what I would do if they were gone, too. The thought of it frightens me. It torments me.
With Maria gone, and Anna leaving… I can't bear to lose another.
[undated]
The dog spent all morning searching for Maria, waiting for her by the door. I saw him chewing one of Maria's old shoes, after a while. I didn't even take it from him. He just kept chewing it and chewing it until all the scent was gone and the last bit of fabric was worn out. He sat there, chewing and whimpering, as the pile of torn fabric grew beside him. I took him on a walk this morning, on the route Maria and Thomas used to take. I barely knew the directions; the dog guided me through every turn, as if he knew the path by heart. Every passerby we approached, every person we met, he stopped and stared at them as if expecting to see Maria's face. I didn't know what to do. When we got home, he curled up and I hugged him and cried. He stopped whimpering after that.
Went back to work today. The kids have had a substitute for the past few weeks. They laugh and yell and play as if nothing ever happened, content with coloring in their drawings and practicing their writing. Today they presented their solar system projects. I remember assigning it to them months ago, Maria helping to prepare each of the little balls and strings for the children to use. She'd always had a knack for crafts. I can still see her handiwork in all of the models; from the tiny, intricate planets that the kids painted on, to the glitter she made for them to use as decoration. That was just before her diagnosis. I remember sitting with her as she made it, at the kitchen table. She'd spilled one of the jars of glitter on my foot, the fine powder painting my socks a shining, vibrant red. I remember throwing some back, and her retaliating, and soon enough we were both laughing, covered head to toe in a fine, glittering powder. We tried for days to clean it out of the floorboards, but to no avail. The wood floor still sparkles, if you look at it from the right angle.
I found some of the old decorations she made for the class in one of my drawers. Seeing them, just sitting there… I don't know. It reminded me of her, I guess. They're sitting in my room, now.
Cooper came by today. He brought back some of Maria's old stuff from the library. Photographs of Thomas, Anna, and I, an set of pens, and an old bottle of whiskey I bought her back when she first got the job. Maria was always a big fan of whiskey. We had intended to save it for a special occasion, constantly putting off drinking it again and again, until… Well, I guess we never got around to it.
I finished the bottle tonight. I know that's probably what Maria would've wanted to do, anyways. God, I'm… I'm just so tired.
[undated]
I found an old box in the back of the dresser this morning. Maria, you had It was an archive of all our old letters. I feel guilty admitting it, but I spent the whole afternoon reading them.
I remembered a time when we were both young and new to the world, unmarred by grief and pain and disease. I had just graduated and you Maria was still studying. I had to work during the day and she had classes, so the only times we could ever meet were evenings and weekends. Maria, she… loved to write. I guess it was what made her pursue literary studies. In the weeks where I was too busy with work or she was occupied with her studies, we'd write letters for each other and leave them by each others' doors. It was unnecessary, really; if we wanted, we could have just found each other in between shifts, or in her case, classes, but I think she liked the writing aspect of it more than anything.
I would complain to her about my boss, and she would describe the plots of books they were studying in her classes in the most beautiful ways and insist that I read them afterwards. I never read any of them; I preferred the way she described them better, anyways. I found an old copy of War and Peace in the box, too. I've been reading it to Thomas. I figure she would've liked that.
[Text damaged.] photographs when we first had Anna, then Thomas. He was so… so pure when he was younger, unsullied by pain and sorrow. The way his face lit up with joy whenever Maria came home from the market, the way he sang and danced around the house in the mornings. [Text damaged.] miss those days. Just… I miss it all.
I don't know whether I should show Thomas. It'd probably cheer him up or completely ruin him. I don't want to risk it.
06/01/1986
Thomas has been acting odd lately, odder than normal. He stares at me with this wretched look on his face— it makes me almost want to look away. He disappeared for hours, last night— our neighbor found him standing by the river where he and Maria used to play, his hands in the water. I shudder to think of what could have happened had he not been found. Sometimes I hear him talking to himself in his room, laughing and chatting to himself as if everything is okay. When I go in to check on him, I find him lying in bed, sleeping as soundly as a rock. Not a sound. Am I imagining things?
My own child, my life and joy, buried by the anguish of his own mother's death— I fear I am losing him as well.
[Text damaged.]
He acts different now, not just out of grief and sorrow, but… something else entirely. Something has changed him. There is a certain madness in his eyes, lit by a fire I cannot see. His pain, his anger, his desperation has coalesced into a fervor, a wretched energy I cannot describe. Today, he disappeared again, and Anna and I searched for hours in the town before coming home and finding him leaning over Maria's grave, hands covered in blood. When we wiped it off, his hands were blackened and charred. Whether the blood was from an animal or… something else, I do not know.
Anna intends to [Text damaged.]
[undated]
I still remember my fifth birthday. It was the last one I spent with my father. We went down to the lake behind the school, the one we went to every week before he— well, before he passed. [Text damaged.] by the shore. I still remember swimming in the cold, dark water— the warmth of the summer air against my face, the light breeze against the water. I remember my dad, laughing from the shore, as I swam back and forth on that beautiful summer's day. As we sat by the shore, when the late-afternoon sun had finally set on the horizon, I asked him if he'd be here forever. I don't know what made me ask— whether it was just coincidence or the cruel hand of irony, I still don't know, either. He didn't know what to say, at first. We just sat there for a while, until he finally said, "Of course I would, Jonathan. What made you think otherwise?"
He died four weeks later. Thinking about it now, I don't know what struck me more: the injustice of it all, or the cruel irony of his words that evening. I don't think it matters.
I still remember the day we had Thomas. It was raining— raining heavily as we took the drive to the hospital. The water tapped on the glass windows of the hospital, as I waited, listening to Maria's screams. An hour later, through the arms of his mother, I saw Thomas. I saw his face light up the room. I saw the light in Maria's eyes. I saw myself.
From those early days, I saw how he lit up Maria's face. He and Anna were the love and joy of our life. I saw the radiance he exuded, the almost childish exuberance he displayed every day.
One day, when Thomas was seven, as we sat in the backyard, listening to the sounds of the crickets chirping and watching the fireflies dance against the night sky, he asked me a question. "Dad, are you ever going to be gone?" As if by fate I told him the same thing my father told me: "No, what made you think otherwise?" We sat there in silence, for a while. At the time, I don't think I processed the gravity of the words I had just spoke. But now I know.
There is no repentance for such a lie. I have to be there for Thomas.
06/03/1986
I don't know what to do. I'm so damn scared.
I did not sleep again last night. I keep seeing Maria's face, etched into the darkness around our my room, lit by a source I cannot see. While I was awake, I heard something in the backyard. It was the sound of digging, a rhymical, determined pattern, like a gravedigger's shovel against the earth. It was Thomas.
Outside, I found him on the ground, covered head to toe in dirt and blood, screaming and crying and writhing all and once, a fire lit beside him. To my shock, Maria's body was lying sprawled across the grass, fresh blood spilling from her neck. Her eyes were open— she was smiling.
Above me, the sky was pitch black, devoid of the moon, and devoid of stars. A black, inky void. And then as Thomas let out another scream, the heavens split in two, as if cut open by a knife. The only thing that stared back at me in the fissure was a wretched void, vast and cold. My god, that darkness, that horrible darkness. It… it hated me. It hated Thomas too. I could feel it in my bones. He had done something unforgivable, something sinister, and it hated him for it. I heard it let out a roiling thunder, and then it closed.
Thomas's body went limp shortly after.
I still don't know what he did… or what he tried to do. I do not wish to know, either. Yet I will not deny, there was life in those dead eyes. A fire, lit by some esoteric magic, some tenebrous god, stared back at me, like something arcane, something wretched had taken her. Something terrible has taken Thomas, too, I fear.
Anna helped [Text damaged.]
I brought Thomas back to the house. I'm afraid of what he's done. I'm afraid of what he has become [Text damaged.]
I went back this morning to find Maria's body missing. There is nothing in that empty grave.
05/05/1986
Anna left this morning. [Text damaged.]
Thomas spoke for the first time in days. His health has been steadily declining since that night; whatever he did there weakened him greatly. His skin has become blackened with death. I fear that I may lose him soon. As he lies in bed, face pale and skin marred, I am reminded of Maria, the way she took her final, heaving breaths. I see her face, etched onto Thomas's, too; the same blue eyes, and the same round chin. Except instead of peace, Thomas's face bears a look of fear, one that still haunts me now.
[Text damaged.]
I asked him what he was trying to do that night. What horrible thing could have driven him to such madness. He wouldn't say.
Instead, he told me that that night, when the sky split and the roiling thunder screamed for his sins, he felt an unimaginable hatred, an unimaginable pain, like the wrath of God upon his soul. As if God had saw his wretched and horrible sins, and despised him for it. [Text damaged.]
He said he was scared.
I asked him if he feared he was dying. He said no, he could accept his own death; he knew it was coming. No, he was afraid of what punishment lay beyond. [Text damaged.] As the sky split open, he explained, he felt something visceral, something he had never felt before. He tasted God's wrath. He had tasted but an ounce of punishment for attempting something sinister, something atrocious.
[Text damaged.]
He feared the righteous flames of hell would greet him once he died. And he feared he knew it was true. Thomas asked me to help him, to absolve him of wrongdoing. He begged me to stay the hand of God. I didn't know what to say.
There's nothing I can do.
06/06/1986
I had a horrible dream last night. Etched in my mind's eye was Thomas's face, pale and gaunt, sweat forming on his forehead. He let out a terrible scream as flames lapped at his body. At once I felt an immense hatred, and an immense surge of emotion as he writhed, body twisting and dancing in the air. And behind him, barely visible in the darkness, I saw myself. I am nude and emaciated, covered in blood from head to toe. And just before I wake up, I see myself kneel over Thomas's thrashing body, hands [Text damaged.] [REDACTED: SEE ADDENDUM 7130-3] and I rise and rise and [Text damaged.]
And as I awaken, I realize. There is still something I can do.
[Text damaged.] I would do anything for my own flesh and blood— I cannot let him suffer any longer. I would give up my promised afterlife if it meant that Thomas could go. I would suffer for him, and I would accept punishment for his crimes as if they were my own. And now I know that I can.
[Text damaged.] open my soul and [Text damaged.] his shared sin unto mine [Text damaged.]
[Text damaged.] and I don't know why I'm writing this— I plan on burning it all once… once I finish. I just need to get this out of my head. [Text damaged.]
Maybe Thomas can be reunited with Maria in the great kingdom above. That [Text damaged.]
I can hear the sky screaming already. I know what I need to do.
The remainder of the pages are either burnt or covered in blood, rendering them illegible.
The corpse of Thomas Normag was also discovered in the downstairs bedroom of the house.1 The skin was found to be abnormally black, as if it had undergone necrosis. Autopsy found the body to be entirely devoid of blood, but otherwise non-anomalous.
The body of Maria Normag was not found.
ADDENDUM 7130-3 — PROTOCOL 801-ENOCHOS
RAISA NOTICE
By the authority of the OVERSEER COUNCIL, the following documents have been classified LEVEL 5/TOP SECRET. Unauthorized access is forbidden.
SECURE - CONTAIN - PROTECT
[SECURITY MEMETIC: WE FOUND SORROW IN HIS EYES AND DROWNED HIS HANDS IN BLOOD]
Dr. St. James,
Again, congratulations. I'm glad you chose to take accept this role— Korner resigning was… well, not unexpected. I hope you're a tougher soul than he was. I figured I owed you at least a partial explanation; I'll do my best to answer the questions you laid out in your previous email:
First: The nature of the blasphemy committed by Thomas Normag that night. From the documents and testimonies we've recovered, it's undoubtably something… horrific. I don't think it's in our best interests to attempt to figure out what he did that night, either; the best we can do is speculate.
Second: Yes, the Thaumaturge must stay. I know you don't like her, Trenton, but she is vital to the success of 801-ENOCHOS. SCP-7130's soul is incredibly damaged (you saw what it can do); likely due to the ritual Jonathan Normag performed on June 6th to exonerate Thomas Normag of divine sin. Without someone keeping its soul bound, it would likely "fall apart" due to the weight of the crimes its soul must now bear. 801-ENOCHOS is important enough that we'd like to avoid that at all costs.
Finally, you asked about ENOCHOS. See attached documentation.
O5-3
Secure, Contain, Protect.
PROTOCOL 801-ENOCHOS
FOREWORD
The Foundation has long had a reputation of being "cold, not cruel." The often gruesome and dangerous nature of our Foundation's line of work frequently requires personnel to make difficult, and often morally and ethically ambiguous decisions.[1][2] Oftentimes, these tasks and decisions made in the line of duty are considered divine crimes in many religions; however, the consequences of inaction would likely be unimaginable.
In light of the discoveries made by Dr. Forthaw's team at Site-401[3] regarding the nature of the afterlife, the Foundation has since required a method of absolving oneself of divine transgressions, or colloquially, "sin." This need is most prevalent in parties such as the OVERSEER COUNCIL[4], the Ethics Committee[5], and certain high-level senior personnel.
In this proposal, we outline a method making it theoretically possible to exonerate oneself of any and all divine transgressions committed during mortality. This procedure involves the usage of SCP-7130[6], along with a number of thaumaturgical rituals derived from the study of certain anomalous events occurring in the locality of Cralesford, United Kingdom in June of 1986.
The method outlined in PROTOCOL 801-ENOCHOS differs from previous methods in the following ways:
- It produces little to no anomalous byproducts. Previous methods have been known to generate large amounts of "theological miasma" as a part of the exoneration process.[7][8] Our method works by transferring an individual's profanations onto SCP-7130, whose soul is already desecrated and fragile enough that it can be ritually bypassed. Blood, lacrimal fluids, and [DATA EXPUNGED] produced by the process can be disposed of via standard non-anomalous methods.
- The procedure is far less complicated or difficult to perform than other methods[7][8]. Via the execution of a number of rituals detailed in DOCUMENT ENOCHOS-TR-3167 and DOCUMENT ENOCHOS-TR-712-ζ, the procedure can be performed with relatively minor side-effects.
- Unlike previous methods, PROTOCOL 801-ENOCHOS has no functional limit to the number of usages.
[REDACTED FOR BREVITY]
BIBLIOGRAPHY
[1] Everwood, J., Ramirez, A., Peterson, C., Houston, N., & Greene, T. (1923). The Montauk Procedure: An ethical dilemma. Foundation Ethics Committee Documentation, 4(6).
[2] Hu, J., Worth, N., & Blaine, G. (1951). Ethical atrocities committed in the name of normalcy. Fieldwork: An SCP Foundation Journal, 612(31).
[3] Forthaw, H., Nicholas, J., Agatha, M., & Maxwell, T. (1943). Divine retribution: Heaven and Hell. Foundation Research Press, 2(3).
[4] [REDACTED PER OVERSEER ORDER]
[5] Matterson, P., Humphery, A., & Bale, L. (1972). Are we complicit? A review of questionable past decisions. Foundation Ethics Committee Documentation, 12(5).
[6] St. James, T. (n.d.). (rep.). SCP-7130. Foundation Database.
[7] Nicholas, J. (1966). Research into high-dose Akiva irradiation. Foundation Research Press, 23(8).
[8] Bale, L. (1954). Auto-cannibalization and its observed theological effects on members of the genus Rattus. Foundation Research Press 41(7).
801-ENOCHOS EXECUTION LOG:
EXECUTOR: D-163784
DATE: 07/22/1986
RESULT: Success.
NOTES: First successful recorded execution of PROTOCOL 801-ENOCHOS.
EXECUTOR: D-527391
DATE: 07/26/1986
RESULT: Success.
NOTES: Second successful recorded execution of PROTOCOL 801-ENOCHOS.
EXECUTOR: Dr. Christian Kumar
DATE: 08/02/1986
RESULT: Success.
NOTES: First recorded usage of PROTOCOL 801-ENOCHOS.
EXECUTOR: Dr. Emmet Adams
DATE: 08/09/1986
RESULT: Success.
NOTES: Cleansing following successful execution of PROTOCOL 999-SERAPH.
[21536 EXTRANEOUS ENTRIES REDACTED FOR BREVITY]
EXECUTOR: O5-3
DATE: 10/13/2004
RESULT: Success.
NOTES: Routine cleansing.
ADDENDUM 7130-4 — UPDATE
Brain imaging of SCP-7130 has shown significantly increased neural activity. Using a Greene-Atkinson Neural Oscillatory Parser, an audio log was generated with four (4) leads implanted into SCP-7130's parietal lobe. The audio log consisted entirely of indecipherable screams, moaning, and sobbing. A sizzling sound similar to searing meat was also detected in the background.
The volume of the screaming has increased by approximately 75 decibels since 1986.