The dictaphone in question was brought to me after being found on the coastal path, wrapped inside an old waterproof coat. Inside the coat were a few gardening tools and a pair of boots marked with dried mud and salt. The microcassette inside the recorder is labelled in a shaky hand: "Carter - Allotment Notes" and will become case #0003.

Only later did I trace the recording back to the eastern allotments, where one shed stood open and unattended. The conditions matched the tape’s contents, but there was no sign of Carter himself.

The entries on the tape suggest several mornings of routine gardening carried out in dense sea fog, gradually giving way to something more unsettling moving through the allotment rows.

Sound carries differently in fog. The moisture in the air. It dampens certain frequencies while amplifying others. It creates a sense of proximity.

The Dictaphone in question is a standard analog microcassette recorder model unknown, likely mid-90s. It was brought to me a few years ago. A dog walker found it on the coastal path, wrapped tightly inside an old yellow waterproof coat.

Inside the pockets were a pair of rusty secateurs, a pack of damp seeds and this recorder. The tape inside is labelled "Carter - Allotment Notes". When I visited the eastern allotments, Edwin Carter's plot, number 42 was overgrown.

The door was unlocked. The tools inside were arranged with military precision. But Carter himself. There was no sign.

The police have long slept, closed the file and classed it as a misadventure at sea. Assuming he fell from the cliffs, the tape suggests he never made it to the cliffs.

Recording begins.

Tuesday, 7th of November.

Frost held off ground. Still workable. Got the broad beans in. Need to check the PH level of the Brassicas. Leaves are looking a bit yellow. Quiet morning. Fog's rolling in off the estuary, though. Thick stuff. Can't see the lighthouse. Must be a leak in the shed roof. Floor's wet.

Thursday.

Fog hasn't lifted. It's sticking to everything. Cold too, damp. Cold gets in your joints. Saw some kids down the old fence, plot 50. Just standing there. Thought they were eyeing up the tools.

I shouted at them to clear off. Didn't run. Just step back into the mist. Gone. Odd, though. They weren't wearing shoes. Mud's freezing. Parents these days want shooting.

Saturday.

Arrived at my plot this morning. It's still here. Can't see five feet past the window. It's like the world's ended and I'm the only one left with a bag of compost.

They're back. The kids. Three of them now, standing right in the middle of the onions. I went out to chase them off my property this time. Got within 10ft. I looked down to tie my boot, just for a second. Then I looked up and they were 10 yards closer. Didn't hear a step, not a sound. Like they were just, well, placed there. They're wet. Soaking wet.

Gray looking. I asked if they were lost. Didn't say a word. So rude. Just stared. Eyes like. Well, like wet pebbles. No white in them at all. I lock the gate. I know I locked the gate. How'd they get in?

Monday.

I'm in the shed again. I'm not going out there. There's more of them. Dozens. I can see their shapes in the fog. Just standing between the rows. Shoulders all hunched. They're tapping on the glass. A finger, pale as a grub, smearing the condensation.

I yelled at them. I told them I'm calling the police. They just opened their mouths. I thought they were whispering, but. But listen. They aren't speaking. They're copying me.

{Breathing}

Breathing like I breathe, but all wet, like they're running round and round, feet slapping on the mud. Well, they want to get in. They aren't children. Children don't behave like that. I don't care how they were brought up. Look at the window. The condensation is on the outside. They're pressing against the glass.

{Radio Blast}

My radio. Hang on. I don't have a radio in here. That's it. I'm not dying in a shed.

I've got a spade and I ain't afraid to use it. I'm coming out. You hear me? I'm coming out.

Won't open. The bolt's back, but it's stuck.

Windows are sealed shut too.

What on earth? The floor. It's opening up. The water is rising. I can see them in the water. They're underneath me. They're reaching up. Let go. Let go of me.

{Carter gets pulled underwater}

{The water recedes}

Recording ends.

Local folklore speaks of the salt-stained children. Not ghosts in the traditional sense, but echoes of the lives taken by the estuary returning.

When the sea mist mimics the conditions of the flood, they are said to seek warmth, to seek entry. But the folklore does not explain the audio anomaly on the tape. Mid recording, a burst of radio frequency interference is audible.

I have analysed the waveform. It is a complex multi-band signal modulating with impossible clarity. Carter's Dictaphone has no receiver. It has no antennae. It is a closed magnetic loop. For that signal to appear on the tape, the radio waves would have to be strong enough to physically remagnetize the oxide on the spool from the air itself.

The shed was empty when I found it. But the floorboards, several of them were warped as if they had been soaked in seawater from the underside.

This entropy, it is aggressive. It threatens the integrity of the physical collection. To help ensure these recordings are digitised before they are lost to the decay, you can support the preservation effort at patreon.tavenend.com and to aid in the analysis of the patterns we have saved. join the network at discord.tavenend.com.

The backlog is growing. The shelves are full. What next? Tape number 12. The ice cream van. No. Device 23. The motorway black box. No, not yet.

Here, device 04, labeled field recording. Castilly Henge. Found in the ditch near Castilly Farm. The casing is warped by heat, crushed by pressure, yet there was no fire.

It contains the final field recording of a Dr. Arlo Finch. He went to the henge to capture the quiet ambience of the earthwork, famous for its lack of standing stones.

The recording is clear, but underneath the wind, there is a sound of immense friction. The sound of heavy rock grinding against the the earth in a place where no stones stand.

End of entry.