May 13th
rating: +10+x

Personal audio log for Agent Jason Finch, May 13th. It is… 13:02 where I am right now. Currently on route to a reported anomalous incident in the town of Pete’s Point, Washington. I have gone over the details of this case, and checked it twice. Travelling via car to move inconspicuously.

Not like the Foundation could have sprung for plane tickets. I guess that wasn’t in their budget for the year. ‘Hey, let’s send one of our agents on a slow-ass road trip to the possibly dangerous anomaly!’ Pricks.

Oh! I should probably state for the record, this audio log is for personal use. So, if you’re listening to this and your name is not Jason Finch, you’re a horrible person. That includes you, Powell. I know you’re the one who’s been snooping through my personal shit.

I’m in Montana right now. Never seen so many empty fields in my life. The Foundation could build a dozen facilities out here, and there’d still be room.

It’d ruin the skyline, though. It’s a real beauty, too. Not much you can do when you’re driving except look at the skyline. Completely flat, all around.

Sorry, got side-tracked. Here’s what I’ve been told about the anomaly: people disappearing out of thin air. That’s it. No leads, no clues, nothing to link it to any other known SCP’s.

This info comes from our contacts in the UIU, which explains why it’s kind of incomplete. Those guys mean well, but they’re out of their depth when it comes to anomalies.

So, as usual, it’s up to the Foundation to figure out the cause of this, hopefully before the GOC blows the town up or MCD starts sticking price tags on everything.

Kinda wonder what the cause of this is going to wind up being. I’ve got my money on an anomalous object. Powell thinks it’s going to be a humanoid, but Powell’s always wrong, so fuck him.


Finch, May 13th, 20:55. It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m driving through what seems to be the world’s largest vacant lot. I’ve only passed a couple of farm houses; no road markers or anything. A few billboards, but that’s it.

A lot of the billboards are just telling me to read a bible. When I took this job, part of my training was memorizing most of the Old Testament. I don’t need to read it again.

If I ever meet SCP-343, I should tell him his advertising campaign isn’t very effective.


Just passed the same farmhouse for the third time. I know it’s the same one, because it’s got a picture of Jesus hugging a sheep painted on its side.

No way more than one farm would have that picture on it. I’m going to keep driving, try and see what’s up.


I can’t get in contact with the Foundation. My phone doesn’t have any reception, and my radio is on the fritz.

Also, my watch says it’s 36:55 in the morning, May 13th. Possibly dealing with time-space anomaly. I’ve parked on the side of the road to see if I’m only affected when I’m driving. If this fails, I’m turning around. I’ve still got plenty of gas, despite driving for… I don’t know, a day maybe.

God, they’re going to make me turn this log in, aren’t they? Then they’ll chew me out for being unprofessional.

Well, I haven’t been acting official so far. Why start now?


The sun still hasn’t risen. It hasn’t risen for hours. I’m turning around.


Finch, May 13th. The time is… I have no idea. I feel like it’s been a day since my last recording. I’m hungry and tired. I don’t want to go to sleep on this fucked up stretch of highway, but I may not have a choice.

Driving in the opposite direction didn’t change anything. I keep seeing the same billboards, the same farmhouses, the same weird painting of Jesus hugging a sheep. The car still hasn’t run out of gas, and the dash is saying I’ve only driven ten miles since my last recording.

Still no word from the Foundation.


Slept. Not sure how long. I feel rested, but still hungry. Ate a few breakfast bars I brought along. They didn’t help much.

I just remembered I have my handgun in the glove compartment. I can’t bring myself to use it. I’m scared this highway will draw out my dying moments for weeks; maybe forever. I don’t want to—

Shit. Damn it. I can see the farmhouse that has the painting of Jesus on it. Only I’m coming up on its other side; the side without the painting.

I got turned around somewhere. Or this highway turned itself around. I have no idea. It seems like this place is just fucking with me. There are no consistent patterns.

The sun just set for the fifth time since I started this recording. I need to take a break.


Just passed a car parked on the side of the highway. My car. I was standing outside of it, watching me pass by. It looked like I had broken down.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to find out if what I saw was real or not.

I think this place is driving me crazy.


May 13th, 00:00 PM. That’s what my watch says, at least.

I slept, and had a dream about being back at the Site. I was telling everyone about this highway. I think it was me, at least; I never saw my face in the dream. For some reason, the Site looked like the house I grew up in.

Jesus was in my dream, along with a sheep. Everyone acted like they were researchers. They called him ‘Jerry’. His sheep turned into 682 and ate Powell.

I woke up laughing.

Fuck Powell.


Something happened! Thank god, something happened. My tire popped. I skidded to the side of the road and stopped. I’ve never been so happy to get a flat tire.

I’m not off of this highway, but at least I’m not driving. I was scared that nothing ever changed here; that things stayed sort of stagnant. Like, you drove and you always drove, with nothing stopping the car from running.

Does that make sense? It might not. I’m a little out of it. I ran out of breakfast bars yesterday.


May 13th. Still stuck on the side of the road. Tried walking to get help. I wound up looping back to my car somehow, only now my car is beside the Jesus farmhouse.

I tried walking to the farmhouse. Knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I waited outside for hours, but there were no signs of life.

After a while, I decided to just force the door open. I looked through the whole house, but didn’t find anyone. There was food, though. And beds.

Normally, I’m against sleeping in strange farmhouses, but I think I’ll make an exception tonight.


Slept for a long while. Ate a sandwich. Changed out of my suit, into overalls and a flannel shirt. I couldn’t take a shower; no running water.

The TV worked, though. I’m not sure what inspired me to turn it on; maybe I was just testing everything.

I turned the TV on to a news story about the Watergate scandal. Changed the channel, and it was the Royal Wedding. Every channel was something different, from some different point in time. I keep changing the channel, but I haven’t cycled around yet.

I’m on channel 1,356 now. It’s an episode of some show called Cop Rock. I think I’m just going to watch it for a while.


What the fuck, why are the cops singing?


May 13th. My watch is cycling through random numbers at this point. Best guess is it’s my third day stuck on this highway. I can’t be sure.

I tried listening to this log to get a sense of how much time has passed. The recording is warped, or something; the entries have all been slowed down. I sat listening to the first log for what felt like a few hours.

I’m back by the car. I had to get out of that farmhouse. The TV was showing news stories that haven’t happened yet. Earthquakes, mass shootings, and a couple of things that I recognized as the results of currently contained SCP’s.

If I get out of here, I plan on telling the sites currently holding those SCP’s about what I saw. It might help stop any future breaches. Or I might be going crazy. Either way, it’s important to talk to people.


It’s been a while since my last recording. I’ve been trying to change the tire on my car. I don’t know why; I guess there just isn’t much else to do.

I touched my face a little while ago. I felt whiskers. I looked in the mirror and saw I’ve grown a beard.

I thought I’d only been here a few days.


I just saw myself drive past. I didn’t even stop to help change the tire. Asshole. Past me was a jerk.


Managed to change the tire. My watch is dead.

Had a dream about the handgun in my glove compartment. I feel like it’s the only way out.

This god damned highway isn’t going to beat me.


May 13th; Jason Finch, personal audio log.

This is either going to be the most unofficial report in SCP history, or the last words of a dead man.

I’m going to turn off the highway and drive off of the road; into the fields, past the farmhouse and Jesus and his lamb. It’s the only thing left to do that I can think of. I’ve got no clue if this will work or not. I’m sort of just holding out hope that this anomaly has some way out.

If it doesn’t work…

If it doesn’t work, I plan on driving into the nearby farmhouse at seventy miles per hour; maybe faster. I’m going to drive right into Jesus’s smiling face and splatter myself all over the house’s tasteful country décor.

Pistol’s on standby if that won’t get the job done. I still hope that it won’t come to that, but I’ve got to think realistically.

To the Foundation: I probably don’t need to tell you this, but don’t take any chances with this place. Build a wall around it; blow it up, do whatever. I’m not sure at what point the anomaly starts, but I bet you’ll throw enough class-D’s at it to figure things out.

To Ben: You’ll probably never hear this. I kind of hope that’s the case, anyway. But I’m glad to have known you. Us meeting each other was worth everything I’ve gone through as part of the Foundation. I love you.

And, finally, to Powell: Go fuck yourself.

Okay. That’s the last will and testament shit out of the way.

Agent Jason Finch, signing off.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License