SCP-3939 photographed prior to containment.

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.

SCP-3939 is to be removed from pre-containment as soon as possible.

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.

Further examination is pending.

You step outside, and Sally is leaning against the wall just in the corridor next to your office — again. Same as before, she snaps to attention as soon as she sees you.

"Sally, why are you standing outside my office?"

"I… uh, don't have a reasonable answer to that."

"Right." you say. "I'm going to head on down to the holding cell."

"I'm coming with you. If only to show you that it was actually rotating."

"You're not…" You think for a moment. "Actually, two pairs of eyes can't hurt. But I'm telling you, there's no way it can rotate."

She mulls it over for a moment. "Sure."

You and Sally make your way down to PC01 and find SCP-3939's cell. You swipe your card across the scanner. Red light goes green, something goes click, and the door slides open. The gentle breeze as air flows into the room ruffles your hair.

The doorway stays pitch black for a moment, and then the ceiling strip lights flare on. Sally physically flinches in response, and you struggle to contain a smirk as the bar light on the right flickers gently. You both step into the room.

It's exactly the same as before. You'd be surprised if even a single fleck of dust had moved since yesterday. Brass horn pointing right into your face, octagonal wooden base, vinyl record spinning in place. You hadn't noticed yesterday (probably because there's nothing to notice), but the record doesn't have a sticker on it.

"What do we need to do?" Sally asks, turning to you.

"We need to run a few simple tests on this thing. At the minute, we don't know why it's anomalous, so we need to find out."

"We don't know anything about it? Except that it rotates."

You shake your head. "We do not. And we don't know that."

She frowns at you. Professionally — there's no malice in her expression, just restraint.

What's first?

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