(This entry has been removed from the Decay Log due to anomalous properties.)
I don't remember the last time I slept.
The refill date on the pill-bottle has been scratched out.
Over a week ago?
I guess it's been about that.
Been listening to the radio.
Sometimes old jazz,
or grainy country,
or what they call rap these days.
A lot of static.
fuck these thin walls.
I was waiting for it.
Those bent notes and that warping siren's call.
this cry for help.
I sat there like a hunter,
ready to record the broadcast the second those scratchy,
haunting notes began.
I've been listening to that recording over and over.
I can't make it out,
they may be speaking backwards.
But it's obvious what they're saying.
They're in danger,
and this is their only way of getting help.
I don't know who they are,
or how I can help, but I don't think anyone else has heard the signals I have.
I might be all they have.
I think I have to do something.
It's been days since I've slept.
My world is a gossamer half-life between dawn and dusk.
devoted to this secondhand radio.
obsessively listening to nothing but static,
hoping to hear anything.
Clearly the same signal,
but no longer binary,
I can't tell what this message says.
noticeably different from the first recording
I managed to steal from the aether.
I don't have the capacity to unravel it.
I can only grasp at the filaments of meaning,
and cut my hands to shreds,
as I try to squeeze clarity from them.
The words I thought were "no worries" ad nauseum.
When the recording is reversed,
it becomes audible.
like so much else in this world,
a string of zeroes and ones.
The problem is,
I don't know a damn thing about it.
I feel like I've uncovered one layer and found something even less accessible.
The answers lead to more questions
Who is transmitting this broadcast?
Why go through the trouble
of breaking through to send an encrypted message in the first place?
What kind of equipment would even generate that strong of a signal?
what the hell is going on?
Someone is sending a message through the radio.
I've heard it four times now, breaking through normal broadcasts.
AM, FM, am and pm.
All the same.
what sounds like a record needle skipping, then a voice.
I thought it was repeating permutations of the phrase
but then regular patterns emerged;
repeat listens revealed that I had misheard the message.
I sent it off for analysis.
Reversing the recording reveals that
the message has been coded in binary;
what I thought was a voice telling me not to worry was in fact
a string of zeroes and ones.
Once that message was transcribed, things got weirder.
Someone is putting out a cry for help.
But why these layers of obfuscation?
Where are these being broadcast from?
The more I learn,
the smaller and dumber I feel.
I've heard a transmission
breaking through normal radio broadcasts.
Always the same message,
roughly the same length,
but always at different tunings,
Always pushing through the edge of silence,
a dream intruding on the waking hours.
Finally I was able to record it.
a skipping needle,
bursts of static,
I swear it’s repeating permutations of the phrase
but as I listen more and more-
There's something here.
before the sun.
For the third time in a week,
I've woken in these dark hours,
battling to cling to
wisps of a dream.
I've been medicating my way to sleep for years now,
dreams were an early casualty.
sleep is a brief jaunt into the void followed by a piss and a cup of black coffee.
Dreams are a rarity,
so even these lingering phantasms are worth a mention.
it was a long dark [redacted].
Am I being chased?
Barely worth remembering,
until three days after I followed the [redacted] and it led to a glimpse of a long jagged [redacted].
I walked that dark [redacted] again, and saw
the Man in the Long Coat
standing at the end.
Was he watching silently as I approached?
Each morning after one of these single frame dreams,
I woke with a distinct sort of static tone ringing in my ears.
I can't place it.
I can still hold the image of the Man in the Long Coat in my head.
A back-lit shadow,
his coat nearly to the ground behind him.
That static tone growing louder as I walk to him,
His face never falling into the light.
I don't know why this is worth mentioning.
Something is in motion.
This was not the beginning.
There's something in the back of my mind, and it wants me dead.
It's been there for years.
When I was young, it pretended to be me.
Used my voice, spoke to me in my thoughts and
told me I was nothing.
Guided my hand and tried to kill me, twice.
Told me I was nothing.
Waived the carrot of inspiration ahead of me just long enough.
I've learned and grown since then.
I have taken the carrot and eaten it, laughing.
I feel its gossamer claws behind my eyes daily still;
the difference is I'm older, wiser.
I'm ready to fight back.
I've studied the methods of binding,
the ways to bleed the beast out from behind its veil and force it into subservience,
tying it to black ink on scrap paper.
This is the incantation.
This is the ritual which I use to destroy my foe.
A warlock in the lineage of Joyce and Faulkner, aspiring to those great works that have shaped me.
My enemy has tried for years to destroy me and failed.
Its nagging, its tearing claws have ripped layers of weakness away, along with these scars they've left.
The taunting demon's ply has made me strong;
my mind has learned the ways of ink and blood.
now my foe is my familiar.
It still tears at me, but I grin in its face and draw its malice to my pen.
I will not destroy it.
I will fight it for my entire life;