Item #: SCP-3939

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3939 is currently kept at Site-39 in pre-containment holding cell C (39-PC01-C). When not in testing it is to be kept in a standard containment locker of appropriate size.

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.

Further tests are pending.

"I…" you begin, but it interrupts you.

"There! Did you see that? Just now. Five choices, five thoughts in your head, all starting with ‘I’ and all leading here, to me saying exactly what I'm saying right now. Maybe you're even going to check whether or not I'm right. Irrefutable proof that I can see all different branches of this story."


Even louder than before.

You sense 3939's nonexistent eyes dart around the chamber.

"That noise shouldn't be happening," it says.

The next bang is so intense that all sound is covered by the pained ringing of your eyes. An explosion at the door lifts you off your feet and hurls you into a corner at the back of the room. Debris is launched, chunks of twisted steel slamming into the walls and narrowly missing you. 3939 isn't so lucky. A chunk barrels through the gramophone, pulverizing it and its base. The vinyl record is undamaged, rolling off on its edge before tipping to one side, falling. Your shoulder and back ache with the pain of impact.

In the particulate haze around the hole the door used to be located you can make out a faint shape. Not human, that's for sure. It's long with what look like fins along its sides. At the front is a bulking mass, which has to be the head. It walks — no, flops — along the ground, awkwardly. Much of the haze clears and it nears you, revealing itself to be… You have zero clue what the fuck this thing is.

"Hi! Gunhead Anomalocaris, expert trilobite exterminator, reporting!"

You begin to regret not transferring out of Site-39 when you had the chance.

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