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⚠️ content warning
Item#: 7839
Containment Class:
Secondary Class:
Disruption Class:
Risk Class:

Assigned Site Site Director Research Head Assigned Departments
R & C Site 102 Dir. Katherine Saw Prof. Thomas Randall Cox Department of History

Each instance of SCP-7839 is to be stored on sublevel 3A of Research and Containment Site 102, under the purview of the Department of History. Any researcher may request access to a copy of an SCP-7839 instance for research purposes. Access to specific instances of SCP-7839 may be approved by the Research Head.


Ivan Kutuzov, sketched posthumously in 1866.

SCP-7839 refers to a collection of poetry and short-form prose written by Ivan Kutuzov during the early 19th Century. The Foundation has access to 312 works that exhibit anomalous properties, the majority of which were retrieved from a secret compartment within a small camp near Achinsk, Russia. SCP-7839 instances have an intrinsic memetic effect. Any individual who reads an SCP-7839 instance will report immediate, vivid, and potent hallucinations. The contents of these hallucinations depend on the exact instance read and remain relatively consistent between witnesses.

If the text of an SCP-7839 instance is copied, it will not develop any anomalous effects. Nonetheless, several SCP-7839 instances have multiple duplicate pages which show consistent effects, indicating that SCP-7839 instances were produced intentionally.

Historical records indicate that Ivan Kutusov was born in April 17931 in Voronezh, Russia. Kutusov became involved with the Russian Anart community from an early age. Kutusov was a veteran of the French Invasion of Russia and was wounded in the Battle of Shevardino in August 1812. Kutusov was dismissed and returned to Voronezh, where he began producing SCP-7839. Kutusov was a respected member of the local anomalous community, and his poetry was widely circulated in the 1820s. In 1821, Kutuzov was stripped of his Russian Citizenship following increased scrutiny of the Russian anomalous community. He moved to the countryside, only interacting with his family and a network of like-minded writers behind the veil. In July 1826 the Seventh Section of His Imperial Majesty's Own Chancellery2 captured Kutusov and sent him into containment in Achinsk, as part of a broader campaign against the Russian anomalous community.3 Kutusov remained there until his death in 1839.


1. Notable Instances

Title: Shevardino
Date: c. 1815
Effects: Subjects note a dull pain and numbness in the chest around the shoulder; and vivid hallucinations of blood pooling around their feet and on the right side of their chest. Subjects report that objects around them are draped in French and Russian standards, rapidly fluttering as if filled by a strong wind. Debris, mostly splinters and gunpowder residue are often reported to litter areas close to the subject.

Before the battle, joke with comrades. Fill paper cartridges,
check your musket for defects.
Eat tasteless food, slop. Wash your face in the nearby stream.
Watch as a group of soldiers fire at cows on a field.
They are no older than sixteen.

Watch Murat's army approach, man the redoubt,
hold the wood in place, strike the nail,
listen to the crackling of gunfire in the distance.
See the priest, receive a final blessing,

Load, fumble, pour gunpowder, fire.
Hear the earth explode around you,
feel the power of cannon fire,
so loud it becomes rhythmic,
drumming, drumming

Stare out for a moment, see that the enemy share your fears,
feel smoke fill your eyes
freeze in place
see a wave of men approach

Feel a bullet graze your cheek,
feel it miss your head by a centimeter,
feel a pouch of gunpowder in your hand
feel your hands shake, watch it slip from your fingers,
scream as a man - animalistic, primal - reaches you.

Fix bayonets, retreat, then hold your ground.
See the man in front of you, animated by fear
feel metal in your shoulder
stumble, fall.

Watch the life drained from your friend's face,
catch death's eye for a moment,
see another man collapse above you,
push him off your body

Hear screams, calls to parents, lovers,
find the strength to crawl away,
feel a faceless man grab you,
watch as your feet scrape across the mud,
faint, rest.

Wake up, hear music.
feel yourself freeze. Swear to yourself that the band is playing cannon fire,
drumming, drumming.

Title: Pokhorony (The Funeral)
Date: March 1822
Effects: Readers report vivid hallucinations of a shallow grave beneath their feet, with a large, white Lily inside. The Lily is universally reported to be illuminated by a ray of sunlight. A group of humanoid figures surround the grave, their faces indiscernible. Readers report that these individuals shake hands, before manifesting shovels and burying the flower.

It was snowing the last time I was allowed to see a member of my unit. I was sitting near a little fireplace, listening to the roar of chatter and community in a small Tavern in the city. I wasn't there to drink, not really. Certainly I was drinking, but I wasn't there for that. I suppose I had to remind people that, yes, I am real. Yes, I exist. I knew they would not believe that for long.

I pulled a folded piece of paper from my coat and wrote out a few lines of poetry, before downing a shot of vodka and asking for another. The bar was cacophonous, but in a way that was comforting. I often remember riding home on horseback, shoulders bandaged, drained by war. The worst thing about it was the silence. In silence, all I can hear is the drumming. A permanent marching band of cannon fire filling my head, whizzing through my brain.

"Ivan!" someone said. I looked up.

"Ah, Vladimir! It's good to see you." I replied, hugging the young, disheveled man in front of me. I remembered Vladimir Kamensky as a bright youth, witty and funny. He was only sixteen when he fought in the Patriotic War. He served with me at Shevardino. I met him again in 1813, at his brother's funeral. He had been struck by grapeshot at Dresden. Some people just got unlucky, I suppose. The years had not looked on Kamensky kindly.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"Nor did I, what brings you to Voronezh?" I replied.

"Oh, you know how it is. Won't get far as a farmer." He gestured to the bartender, ordering another shot of Vodka. He gulped some of it down, coughing. "Woah, Strong stuff. Anyway, how's it going?"

"Oh, you know, the usual." I lied. I remembered the soldier at my door, steel blade glinting in the sun. I imagined myself in a pit, their steel shovels glinting in the sun. "Writing, I guess."

"More Politics?" He laughed, but I almost cried. I took another sip of Vodka.

"Yeah, more politics. I guess that's all you can write about these days. I probably sound pretty grouchy while doing it."

"A bit pessimistic, maybe. Where's the Ivan of 1812, so hopeful that he would make the world a better place?"

"He died at Shevardino. Tsar Alexander digs his grave."

"Come on, you did make the world a better place. I - we spent our entire lives with Europe at war. We brought Europe peace." And what a peace it was. I felt the echoes of gunfire in my ears. I remembered coming back to empty homes. I remembered standing at a store, imagining the clerk in a French uniform, trying not to run and cry. I remembered the drumming. I remembered wishing I could go back to Shevardino, where everything was simple, where we were all Russian, and theywere all enemies.

"And how is peace working out for you?" I asked, my voice breaking as I spoke. I imagined the room growing darker, soil falling on my face. Vladimir shifted in his seat.

"I - I need to go. I'm meeting someone." He hugged me. And then he left. And that was it.

I returned home, seeing the soldier in front of my door again. I caught his eyes, resigned and despondent. I felt as if I was being buried alive. But I could not climb. After all, it is the right of Kings to bury the beautiful.

Title: Kak polnost'yu unichtozhit' cheloveka (How to Completely Destroy a Person)
Date: July 1833
Effects: Readers report an approaching figure in the corner of their vision. The figure is usually described as feminine, gaunt, and wielding a small ritual dagger. Subjects report a cold wind blowing against their face, and a "growing hunger". They further describe a pervasive sense of being watched.

When the soldiers arrive at your house, stare.
You have been destroyed, no point fighting now.
"Take it to Kazan", they say. They are talking about you, but not to you.
You are not real.
They push you to the ground. You feel the dirt against your face. Watch your home drag itself away from you.
Watch those you love cry. No point remembering them now.
You are whisked through cities. They are still beautiful.
You would realise, in a different world.
Right now, all you care about is your headache. Your body is numb.
You face a faceless tribunal. They seize every memory and enter it as evidence.
You are once again taken. You end up in Omsk, you think.
You are thrown into a cell. There is another with you.
He is starved. He vomits all night. He dies in the morning.
They must wait for winter to pass to bring you further.
"The safety of personnel" is important to these men.
Don't be fooled, you are not.
You are not real.
You make a friend - Popov, he calls himself.
You laugh about old memories, then you cry.
For a fleeting instant you think the world might be fine.
You and Popov are sent by horse further east.
At Yekaterinberg, you cannot go on. You collapse, aching all over.
Popov pulls you onto his horse. He has a smuggled watch, somehow.
He hands it to a guard. The guard decides to let Popov continue with you.
Do not mistake his mercy for sympathy.
Your horse is dead.
You are not real.
You and Popov admire the countryside, pointing out the wildlife.
One night, he recalls building his first watch. He had nothing.
He imagined a watch in his mind, building cogs from reality.
He would try to build other things, grasp for some other mechanism.
It would always be a watch in his hands, though.
"The stars are beautiful tonight," he says.
They are.
You tell him about the war. About Shevardino.
He remembers the land, empty, his home and farm burned to stop the enemy.
He remembers reading your poetry.
He tells you that you are famous. You do not feel famous.
You are not real.
One day a prisoner collapses on the move.
He is not given the mercy you were given.
You leave him on the side of the road. His shouts fill your head.
You forget him tomorrow. He becomes faceless, nameless.
You remember your old friends. Cry. Forget.
You finally arrive in Achinsk. There is nothing here.
You smile as you realize you can stop marching.
You try to cry as you realize you will die here.
Your eyes are empty, dry, frozen. No tears emerge.
You wipe your eyes and feel nothing.
Maybe the guards were right. You are not real.
In Achinsk you are sent on a month-long expedition.
You are to establish contact with a town further north.
The town is deserted. You return.
You learn that Popov has died.
He was taken behind a ridge and shot for attempting to bribe a guard. You forget.
Another man - you never know his name, attempts to befriend you.
You are frozen. He eventually leaves.
The next day you struggle to wake up.
You reach out to a buried memory of home, a dull excitement striking you.
And it vanishes.
Why do you remember? Do you hope to return to what it was before?
Don't be fooled.
You are not real.

Title: Untitled
Date: c. 1839
Effects: Subjects consistently report the smell of a cigarette and a decaying corpse. They note a dull pain in their chest and the taste of blood in their mouth. In one corner of their vision, they describe a burning 19th-century townhouse, with three indiscernible figures standing in front of it. In front of this structure, a lake is typically visible, with a large number of disembodied eyes visible within it. The sound of cannon fire is commonly attested. After completing the poem, subjects report feeling a hand on their shoulder, which suddenly drags them backward.

I feel it
the wind on my face
window, flowing curtains, straw bed
floor - stone,
rafters - dripping, damp.
how can anywhere be so cold?
so empty?
I see the sun but it is dark
so dark
There are eyes in my mirror
oh, to see snow again.
to see a city, anything
more time, more time
I thought it would be calmer
I don't want to be watched but I can't move
I see it
the door, open
eyes behind it,

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