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Hi!

Item #: SCP-3939

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: Uhh, how does this section work? I don't know what this means and I don't want to mess this up so I'll say it's contained. That's fine, right?

Description: SCP-3939 is a gramophone, or record player, of unknown date of origin but consistent with design and manufacturing trends of the 1930s. It has an octagonal wooden base constructed of polished mahogany and is imprinted with the logo of HMV at the time. Atop this base is a turntable which is connected to the gramophone mechanism and a large brass horn. All components are in good condition.

SCP-3939 currently has a black vinyl record on the turntable, which is turning at a standard rate despite no visible source of power. Additionally, SCP-3939 possesses the ability to speak with a voice transmitted through the horn and potential sapience. Thus far it has only been shown to speak to certain people.

The brass horn always rotates to point at the observer. Other observers will see the horn rotate to point towards them.

Tests to ensure a trilobite free environment are underway!

You run.

"Hey! Researcher-person! Come back so I can check you! Please?"

Instead of going straight down the corridor you take a left turn, sprinting past rows of containment chamber entrances. All unmarked. The light fixtures are the same and are repeating.

Why hasn't the anomalocaris ever tried to pursue you? You look over your shoulder, expecting to catch a glimpse of it giving chase. All you see is the hallways stretching behind indefinitely. The hole into the chamber is gone, and with a few more glances the doors for every other chamber are gone. You're back in the same corridor. You keep running. Every new step grows more cumbersome than the last, like you're wading through water — no, a fabric, becoming denser and denser with each press you make against it. Thin, invisible strands press into your skin and push—

"Hi, researcher person!"

Your head is hit by the mental equivalent of a car crash. In the milliseconds of the pain smashing through your thoughts, you remember sitting in a sterile white room, writing a second person narrative, crying. The pain abruptly stops.

The conversation plays out exactly the same.

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