SCP-6196
rating: +138+x

he·​re·​si·​og·​ra·​phy

the academic study of heresies, unorthodoxies, and half-truths.


Momota: Burnley-san loved pro-wrestling.

Teller: What?


george.png

PoI-0004


Item #: SCP-6196

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: Wesker & Sons Funeral Parlor has been purchased by the Foundation and renamed to Salazar Crematorium & Parlor. All staff have been retained, and will continue to operate the crematory and Funeral Parlors A, C, and D as usual. Funeral Parlor B has been sealed shut from the inside and employees have been informed not to discuss SCP-6196 with anyone.

Description: SCP-6196 is the ongoing wake and funeral of Lyle Alan Burnley, former patriarch of the Burnley Clan1. More specifically, SCP-6196 is a temporal anomaly localized to Funeral Parlor B of the Salazar Crematorium & Parlor (formerly Wesker & Sons Funeral Parlor), Pollensbee, Mississippi, United States. Burnley's funeral occurred on July 18th, 1977, a week after his death. The funeral was a closed event and all attendees departed shortly after the event's conclusion.

When SCP-6196 formed is unknown, but it manifests as the funeral continuing indefinitely in Parlor B. All guests are present, despite them leaving the building on 07/18/1977 and continuing their lives (and in many cases, dying long after). These 'copies' of guests retain their knowledge and personalities, but do not appear to possess any memories after 07/18/1977.

Several observations regarding SCP-6196:

  • The room of the funeral parlor, unlike other rooms, is decorated in a mid-century modern style reminiscent of the 1950s.
  • Alongside the recorded guests are several who died well before the date of the funeral. (See Addendum 6196.2).
  • Most guests are unaware of their temporally-displaced nature, with one notable exception (See Addendum 6196.2).
  • The body of Lyle Alan Burnley is not actually present within the casket.

Time continues to pass inside SCP-6196, and it is possible for individuals to enter and speak to the guests. Several interviews have been conducted in this manner. In addition, Burnley himself wrote about his own funeral in certain chapters across disparate works years before his death. These have been attached.

Addendum 6196.1: Excerpts from Burnley's works.

The Tibetan Buddhists in the Himalayas practice sky burial, wherein the body of the honored dead is given its last rites, cleaved and quartered by a body-breaker monk, and scattered across the mountaintops for the vultures to feed upon. I should hope my funeral would not be quite so ascetic, although I imagine at that point I would likely have other things to worry about.

I respect the honesty of the sky burial. There is no false remembrance, no talking up of the deceased. The spirit has moved on — there is merely a body to be disposed of. That is the ultimate truth. Western funerals could not be further from the truth — the body is an afterthought. Memories, stories, emotions about the death take precedence, and as any heresiographer knows (though I would be surprised if any were still on speaking terms with me), memories, stories, and emotions are where the greatest lies, delusions, & unorthodoxies form. People are bound to convince themselves they liked the poor fool lying in the casket with a burst artery when in fact no one hated him more than they!

Yes. Funerals are the greatest heresies of all.

I have travelled to all eight continents, encountered all kinds of peoples and, regrettably, attended dozens of funerals. The one I remember most was that of Benjamin Siegel — Bugsy. We were acquaintances; the Burnley clan has holdings across the South, which by necessity includes Las Vegas and all the horrors that come with it. And one does not have holdings in Las Vegas without being on speaking terms with Mr. Siegel. But I digress — I knew little of the circumstances of his death, I avoid involvement with those that would use the supernatural for something as cheap as personal profit.

His funeral was a surprisingly gaudy affair for a man who had been gunned down in his girlfriend's home. Although I suppose all of California was like that, then — the war had ended, the boys were coming home. Those without knowledge of the secret war that raged on in Africa and Polynesia felt the world was finally at peace, and they celebrated with all the trappings of post-war Americana. A big band playing his favorite swing music, mob wives in feather boas and fur coats, even the Bureau in quiet, intimidating presence. And yet everyone was laughing and dancing as if a man was not lying dead twelve feet from them. Even in death, joy.

I should like my funeral to be like that, I think. But make it short. Then burn me.

Addendum 6196.2: Exceptional Interviews

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT


[TELLER enters the funeral parlor. The band is in the midst of an uptempo swing song. A number of guests, ranging from well-dressed socialites and executives to tribal leaders and professional wrestlers mingle, several dancing to the music. A large, shirtless Asian man with a gold belt sips from a flute of champagne.]

TELLER: Hello.

MOMOTA: Hello.

TELLER: You're Rikidōzan. The wrestler.

MOMOTA: You are correct. A fan?

TELLER: No, just an academic.

MOMOTA: Aha. Interesting. There are many academics here.

TELLER: Mr. Burnley was an academic man.

MOMOTA: You would be surprised.

TELLER: Oh?

MOMOTA: Burnley-san loved pro-wrestling.

TELLER: What?

MOMOTA: Professional wrestling. He was a big fan, kept up with American and Japanese circuits.

TELLER: Huh. Colour me surprised.

MOMOTA: It is not that surprising.

TELLER: If you say so. Is that how he knew you?

MOMOTA: Yes. He visited Tokyo many times. He enjoyed seeing my matches. We were introduced at a business party.

TELLER: He was intimately involved with the IJAMEA. Makes sense he would stick around after the war.

MOMOTA: The IJAMEA?

[A pause. Both sip their champagne.]

TELLER: Nevermind. So, Momota-san…

MOMOTA: Yes?

TELLER: Do you have the date?

MOMOTA: July 18th, 1977.

TELLER: …yes. And you died in 1963, didn't you?

MOMOTA: Oh, do not bring that up. It dampens the mood. This is a happy event.

TELLER: I'm just curious how you're here.

MOMOTA: Inside this little room, it is not 1963. It is 1959, and all is well. These are the good times, you know.

TELLER: Where you're alive, and a superstar in your sport?

MOMOTA: I will always be alive, and I will always be a superstar…. you did not tell me your name.

TELLER: Teller. Adam Teller.

MOMOTA: Teller-san. But yes. The fifties — my time in the spotlight. The American money is flowing into Tokyo and Osaka, and the entertainment of the soldiers is wrestling. They bring their burly American wrestlers, and I humble them on the mat.

TELLER: Sounds like you enjoy the job.

MOMOTA: Quite.

TELLER: How well did you know Mr. Burnley?

MOMOTA: Quite well. Burnley-san enjoyed the spectacle of it all — he found it intensely amusing, though he never quite articulated why to me. Perhaps you will have better luck with Wagner-san.

[MOMOTA points out a burly blonde man in the crowd.]

TELLER: Is that-

MOMOTA: Yes.

TELLER: Huh.

MOMOTA: Was there a point to this conversation, Teller-san?

TELLER: …no, not really. I just have one more question, if you don't mind.

MOMOTA: Yes?

TELLER: What are you still doing here? The funeral ended, and obviously you know that. Why are you still here?

MOMOTA: The same reason as everyone else, of course.

TELLER: And what's that?

MOMOTA: It was a better time.


END TRANSCRIPT

Addendum 6196.3: Following the unexpected termination of Doctor Teller's recording log, undercover agents in Pollensbee were put on ready alert to enter the building. Before they could, Doctor Teller exited Salazar Crematorium & Parlor. Immediately after this, all anomalous activity in Funeral Parlor B ceased. Doctor Teller was officially reprimanded for involving himself in an anomaly and acting against orders. No disciplinary action was taken, but Doctor Teller was asked to explain what he had said to PoI-0001. He surrendered this letter, authored by Lyle Burnley and apparently kept wax-sealed in his desk drawer.

Dear Henrietta,
Ms. Jackson,
To Jackie

Henry,

By the time you're reading this, I imagine I will be long dead. That, or something has gone horribly wrong and what remains of my soul is trapped in the in-between. In either case, you will be chief among my concerns.

We have known each other for a long time. I remember racing through the Darien Gap to find the Fronteras Sarcophagus, only to find you sitting on it and having a smoke. I remember you arriving on the stoop of Elelín clutching a warm stone that glowed with a pink light. Seeing you in Vienna before the bombs fell and leaving in a truck, before realizing you had taken my amulet. Sitting at the ringside of a money-match in Tokyo. A tender moment shared at a Hollywood funeral, and a kiss in a Paris bar.

I worry you will do something foolish when I am gone. You are that rare kind of person, Henry, that not just craves but needs a competition. You define yourself by it. We never brought up the moment again, and I think we both agree it was better that way. I had Susan, you had your steady stream of companions. But we left it like an unended question — hanging in the air, leaving the option open. A mistake, I fear.

Those times were the best in my life. I would hope they were the best of yours, too. But we all must move on — I gave up that part of me when I came back to Pollensbee. Yes, I worry you will do something you will come to regret when you realize the good times will never come back.

I have come close many times, but I have never acquired the talent of foresight. I can only make my guess, and I am not sure what exactly what you will do. But I have quite a bit of faith in my guesses, and I will tell you three things:

1) Let it go. Move on. Time will pass. Do not live a lie because you cannot live with the truth; a heresy is not a preferable alternative to an orthodoxy.

2) The good times are only good because they end. Otherwise, they are just times.

3) I have always loved you.

Yours,
Lyle


rating: +138+x
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