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.
No worries.
Been listening to the radio.
Sometimes old jazz,
or grainy country,
or what they call rap these days.
A lot of static.
Full volume,
fuck these thin walls.
I was waiting for it.
Those bent notes and that warping siren's call.
The signal,
the message,
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.
(Files attached from Decay Log: “Images” and deemed “Non-Anomalous Images” by Tesseract Agent Codename: SignalSam)