The transmission repeated every forty minutes, exactly, for six nights running. Recorded and slowed down, it sounded like static with a grudge. Recorded and played backwards, it sounded like someone reading a shipping manifest in a language that did not quite exist yet.
The manifest
Forty crates, it said, of instruments bound for a survey that the records office had no listing for. A port of departure that matched no atlas. A signature at the end, read forwards this time by accident, that matched no one currently employed, retired, or on record as deceased.
The seventh night
On the seventh night the signal did not repeat. Nothing has come in on that frequency since, and no one who monitored it that week has been willing to say, on the record, whether they were relieved.
Correspondence regarding this file is welcome, though replies may be slow to arrive.
Send word