Scp-288 Novels & Stories

What did that even mean? “I have no idea what you're getting at,”she said to the young girl.”What are you speaking of?” “She has lived in the shadows for a long time,watching and waiting for you.” “You’re not making any sense,”Beth replied,agitation rising in her voice. “Have you not felt her Beth?Here in your home?She watches you,growing stronger every day,she wants your life and she will end it when she’s ready.” Now Beth was getting mad.Were hallucinations supposed to be this annoying?

“You should rest. Process. Grieve.” “I’ll grieve after I stop the Collective.” I headed for the elevator. “Clara died protecting me. Protecting whatever’s in that storage unit. I’m not letting that be for nothing.” The storage facility was across town. Old building. Rusted metal doors. Security cameras that probably didn’t work. Unit 2847 was in the back. Away from the main walkways. Isolated. The key turned smoothly. The door rolled up with a metallic screech. Inside was a single filing cabinet. Four drawers. Each is labeled with a name.

"On the previous watch, your vocal cords released the names of Rickey Owen and Janet Lawrence; however, my intelligence units found zero matching records in the Dominion ledgers. Provide the missing network markers so my scouts can narrow the parameters." The second my voice hit the space, the old woman's pupils shrank with intense, paranoid vigilance. She dragged Chika deeper into her personal space, her claws digging into his uniform as she shielded his frame with her own body. A wave of raw terror rolled off her skin, her beast misidentifying my chair as a extraction unit designed to tear Chika from her sector. Chika winced, his muscles locking under the sheer force of her grip.

I opened the folder. Inside were incident reports from other universities. Students with "extraordinary abilities" who'd lost control. Photographs of destruction, entire buildings collapsed, burn patterns that didn't match any known accelerant, people frozen solid in the middle of summer. And at the center of it all, casualty reports. Hundreds of deaths attributed to "supernatural awakenings." "Oh my God," Miguel breathed, reading over my shoulder. The final document was a psychological evaluation of Maya Cross, dated three weeks ago. The conclusion made my blood run cold: