The Carcosa Veldt Congregation
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Tenth of July, 1965.
Today, I was instructed to investigate bizarre autocannibalistic behaviour in animals in the vicinity of Carcosa, Nevada. I opted to temporarily trade my Morris Minor for a weathered Chevrolet Bel-Air so as not to draw unwanted attention. I arrived in the town at nine in the evening. It was a strictly linear settlement which made it rather easy to locate the town's sole hotel. I parked opposite the hotel and entered to find the ground floor occupied by a traditional western saloon. I sat down at the bar and was shortly after approached by a limping barman.

"What ya drinkin', outsider?" he inquired.

"Do you have Gordon's Gin?"



"Yeah, here you go," he said, slamming a glass down on the bar.

"Leave the bottle, if you don't mind," I asked, before drinking it.

"Your call."

"Would I be able to get a room for the night?"

"No vacancies."

"Do you know where I can find one?"

"Not in this town."

"In that case, I think I'll be going."

I retired with my bottle of Johnnie Walker to the back of my car and kept an eye on the hotel. As I had suspected, four rooms appeared to be unoccupied.

Eleventh of July, 1965.
When I awoke this morning, it became quite clear that I was too old to be sleeping in a car. I decided to drive into the desert and observe the town from afar. With the aid of binoculars, I noticed a large congregation of both people and animals gathering in the aforementioned hotel at noon. Though I was unable to see what was transpiring within, I did notice that all members of the congregation emerged with injuries of varying severity, in keeping with the behaviour that I was instructed to document.

Drawing from my past experience with the Esoteric Cult, I decided that an abduction and subsequent interrogation was in order. With the barkeeper limping even more heavily than he was the previous night, I deduced that he would make an easy target, an important consideration as the last forty years had not been kind to me. Parking my car in the desert close to - but well out of sight of - the hotel, I made my way through the patch of desert behind the building and located the back door. With my 1909 in my left hand, I chiselled a small hole in the thin wooden door using my knife and opened the deadbolt using my fingertips.

As silently as possible, I made my way through the store room to the beer kegs and kinked one of the hoses. Sure enough, the maimed barman limped his way into the room and found me waiting for him, perched on a beer keg with my suppressed 1909 in hand. Fortunately for me, as I doubt I'd be capable of hiding his body at this point, he came willingly. I made my way to Las Vegas with my new toy safe in the boot and purchased a telescope, a water bottle, a polarising filter, a cloth and a pair of bolt cutters to further my investigation.

"What goes on in the hotel at noon?" I asked, only to be met with silence.

I decided to employ some light persuasion until I finally extracted "I ain't gonna tell you shit, limey."

Extending the duration of each cycle of persuasion, I extracted nought but increasingly colourful strings of expletives and I was forced to employ the bolt cutters.

"If you aren't going to talk, I'm going to take the other one."

"Okay, you fucking monster!" he screamed with tears streaming from his eye.

"What do you do in the hotel at noon?"

"Religious service," he rasped.


"We follow the books of the veldt, that's all man!"

"What's the veldt?"

"God, kinda? Nah, more like a sorta predator spirit."

"Does auto-cannibalism play into it at all?"

"Naw man, no."

I tightened the bolt cutters around his right thumb.

"Look man, you're not going to get anything good out of me if you keep this up, only what you wanna hear!"

Realising the validity of his point, I halted the interrogation and disposed of him. I spent the night in the Tropicana hotel in Las Vegas, a pleasant change from the backseat of my borrowed Chevrolet Bel-Air.

Twelfth of July, 1965.
On my return to Carcosa at noon today, I noticed the now fully healed congregation again gathering in the hotel. I drove as quickly as I dared to my elevated desert hideaway and observed. Within lay a horror not dissimilar to what I'd witnessed in Cornwall decades ago. Through the narrow window aperture, I saw a man slicing off the majority of his bicep and consuming it. After the ritual's conclusion, I made my way to Site-19 and requested that Foundation personnel construct a perimeter around Carcosa, out of sight of the actual town. I also acquired some electronic surveillance equipment, a ladder, a sheet of felt and a tub of wood filler.

I returned at midnight and applied some felt to the top of my newly acquired ladder so as not to disturb the occupants of the hotel. I climbed the ladder and carefully carved a small slot beneath a window facing into the room in which the congregation gathers. I slid the surveillance device into the slot and covered it with some wood filler. I then returned to my car to get some fitful sleep before beginning my observation.

"What were you doin' up there?" a suspicious voice asked behind me.

"Fixing the window."

"At ten past midnight? You expect me to believe that."

"Well madam, I was supposed to have done it seven hours ago but I fell asleep. At least the job's done now. You're not going to tell them I was late, are you?"

"No sir, good to see someone that dedicated to their customers," she replied.

As she winked and walked away, I let out a sigh of relief.

Thirteenth of July, 1965.
I have just been awoken by an anthropomorphic Coyote striking my windscreen.

""Whatcha doin', stranger?" he asked.

"I'm recording our encounter in my journal."

"I mean in town! Why are you here? Seeing the sights, taking in the desert air… interrupting my quality time with the good people of Carcosa?"

"I'm not doing anything to them."

"Really? And all of the cars and helicopters circling this place are here to sample the Gordon's Gin? Oh, wait, we don't have that here."

"I'm not at liberty to tell you. How on earth did you know about the gin?"

"I've been to the watering hole here," he replied before drinking an entire bottle of Johnnie Walker. I glanced at the backseat to check on my bottle only to find the Coyote in its place.

"Ergh. Disgusting. How do Europeans drink this shit?" he inquired, before eating the bottle with a series of sickening crunches.

"Jesus Christ."


I attempted to respond but spoke involuntarily in a series of foreign tongues, one definitely being German and another French. Eventually, I spat out "What are you?"

"I'm having fun right now, that's what. Keep writing."

"I'm afraid the cartridge is nearly empty."

I looked up from my journal to find that the Coyote had deprived me of his company. I glanced at my watch only to realise that the Coyote had distracted me and that I had missed the sermon at the hotel. For all I know, that was, in fact, his intent. I tuned my radio to a Foundation frequency and began to organise a containment effort.

"I'm afraid I couldn't catch the sermon. There is a humanoid resembling an anthropomorphic coyote within the cordon around Carcosa and it distracted me," I announced, "It is wearing a leather jacket and a crucifix and has demonstrated limited ontokinetic abilities."

"Ten-four Charlton, we'll get some guys on it."

I turned my telescope to the hotel's veranda and observed the members of the congregation conversing after completing their macabre ritual. I could see a rather disturbing quantity of blood seeping through one man's shirt and soon noticed the intestine trailing behind him. Having followed the trail, my gaze was greeted by a human kidney lying haphazardly on the deck with scarcely any acknowledgement by the hotel's patrons. By the time I completed my observations, I was retching onto the desert floor. I began to feel a peculiar sensation beneath my fingernails and realised that I had an abnormally large quantity of stubble.

I fear the coyote may have altered me in some fashion. As I write, the webbing between my fingers is extending and my fingernails are beginning to warp. My hair appears to be growing at a perceptible rate. I can't help but wonder whether I should pick up the radio and alert the Foundation. Why not, after fifty years of dedication to the Foundation, they must be willing to make some allowances for my anomalous state. Perhaps they may even allow me to continue my service in an administrative role.

"The anomaly that I reported earlier has altered me," I told the dispatcher with a newfound growl.

"In what way?" he asked.

"He has imbued me with some canine features."

"Could you be more specific, Mr. Charlton?"

"My hands are becoming claws. He hasn't altered me mentally, I think he wants me to suffer."

"Can you keep up the mission?"

"Yes. I'll let you know if my circumstances change."

I'm attempting to return to Carcosa to stock up on supplies for tomorrow's stakeout, but my leg now lacks the articu

lation necessary to depress the ⠀c⠀l⠀⠀u⠀⠀t⠀⠀c⠀⠀h⠀⠀⠀⠀p⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀e⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀d⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀l

This journal, presumably belonging to operative Geoffrey Charlton, was recovered from his Chevrolet. On the Thirteenth of July, 1965, several hundred specimens of what are now believed to have been members of SCP-2547 were seen fleeing Carcosa. Several Foundation personnel manning the perimeter disappeared along with operative Charlton. Foundation reinforcements found Carcosa deserted.

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