Broadcast Interruption: Signal 7-Gamma

THE LAST TRANSMISSION

BROADCAST INTERRUPTION: SIGNAL 7-GAMMA

--- Intercepted Amateur Radio Broadcast ---
SOURCE: Unidentified shortwave frequency. Call Sign (fragmented): K-ilo X-ray 7-…
TIMESTAMP: 2025-12-30, 23:47 UTC

TRANSCRIPT START

(STATIC. A man's voice, strained but attempting calm.)

VOICE: …is this thing on? Alright. Testing, testing. This is… this is KX-7. Monitoring the… the fluctuations. They're increasing. Exponentially. This isn't solar activity, folks. Not… not a magnetosphere hiccup. This is… deliberate.

(A low, persistent hum begins in the background, like a distant, distorted choir.)

VOICE: Hear that? It started… roughly an hour ago. Just a faint thrum. Now it's… it's almost physical. My fillings are aching. And the colours… the colours are wrong. Too bright, too deep. Like the world’s been… recoloured by a madman.

(The hum swells, occasionally punctuated by crackling and brief, unidentifiable clicks.)

VOICE: They’re saying it’s nothing. Just… just a new weather pattern. Hah! Weather. I’m seeing things move in the periphery. Like black oil. Just… slipping. Between the shadows. No. No, not shadows. They _are_ the shadows.

(A gasp. The voice becomes more frantic.)

VOICE: It’s in the signal! It's _inside_ the signal! I tried to filter it, but it… it learned. It’s talking to me. Not words. Not… not sounds. It’s… it’s a _feeling_. Like cold hunger. Like… like a thousand tiny needles beneath my skin. The buzzing… it’s getting louder. It’s _inside_ my head!

(The voice cuts off abruptly, replaced by a deafening, wet, grinding noise, then total static.)

TRANSCRIPT END

--- Interception Terminated ---

Dream Log: Recurring Filthscapes

(A Dream Journal Entry)

DATE: 2025-11-28 ENTRY: It's the water again. Always the water. Not clean, not murky. But oily. Viscous. It coats everything. My hands, my teeth. In the dream, I’m trying to wash something clean, but the water itself is the dirt. And the soap… it smells like burnt sugar and metal. I keep seeing faces in the ripples. Faces I know. My old neighbor. That guy from accounting. They're smiling, but their eyes are empty, just black pools reflecting the oily surface. I wake up tasting something foul.

DATE: 2025-11-29 ENTRY: The city. But wrong. Buildings are alive, breathing. Their windows are eyes watching me. The streets are veins, pulsing. And the people… they’re just puppets. Strings visible, pulled by something vast and invisible above. I try to scream, but no sound comes out. Only a low, wet gurgle, like mud boiling. The sky is purple, like a bruise. And there’s a hum. Not the nice kind. The kind that drills behind your ears. The Buzzing. It’s always there, now, even in sleep.

DATE: 2025-11-30 ENTRY: Found a rose. Perfect. Black as obsidian. It grew out of the pavement, right in front of my door. I picked it up. It felt warm, almost alive. But then the petals started to unfurl, and inside… not stamens. Not pollen. Just writhing, tiny green things. Like microscopic worms. And they whispered. Not words. Just a language of want. A deep, insatiable hunger. I dropped it. It didn't break. It just sunk into the concrete like it was liquid. The hum is getting louder. I think it’s trying to tell me something. Or asking me to join.

DATE: 2025-12-01 ENTRY: I don't know what's real anymore. The dreams are bleeding. I saw the black rose on my kitchen counter when I woke up. It was gone a second later, but the scent… it’s still here. Burnt sugar and metal. The hum. It’s comforting now. Like a lullaby. The faces in the oily water. They’re beckoning. They look so peaceful. Maybe it’s not dirt. Maybe it’s just… becoming.