The Moths Are Listening

 

It's live. Right now.

3 July 2026 | 18:00 UTC | Jenna McKendrick

Three weeks ago I posted about a signal I'd detected from the vicinity of Kingsmouth Lighthouse. I told you it was structured. I told you it was distributed. I told you every indication in the data pointed to a specific activation time.

18:00 UTC. 3 July 2026.

It's 18:00 UTC. 3 July 2026.

It's live.

I've been monitoring the carrier pattern every single day since 10 June, logging the pre-activation pulses, watching the signal hold its shape while it waited. Twenty-three days of watching something dormant gather itself. I won't pretend it wasn't unsettling. You tune in every morning expecting nothing, and every morning the static is the same -- structured, deliberate, patient. Not nothing at all, but nothing yet. Waiting for today.

Well. Today is here. And I have a lot to tell you.

 

Let me take you back to the beginning, for anyone who missed the first post.

On the evening of 7 June, I was running a routine frequency sweep across the Solomon Island coastal bands. I do this semi-regularly from the boat. It's mostly background noise out there -- weather interference, the odd fishing vessel, the kind of static that becomes almost meditative after a while. Nothing interesting. I was half-watching something on my laptop and paying the equipment about a third of my attention when, at 18:47 UTC, everything lit up.

A structured transmission pattern. Deliberate spacing. Repeating sequences with layered signals running beneath the primary track. Not interference. Not a ghost echo bouncing off the water. A broadcast. A real, deliberate, engineered broadcast, and my equipment was tracing its origin point to Kingsmouth Lighthouse.

I spent the next two hours trying to explain it away. Equipment fault. Atmospheric bounce from a source elsewhere. Some kind of weird harmonic from shipping traffic. Anything. The origin point kept resolving to the same location. So I started pulling apart the frequency signatures, and that's when I had to take the headphones off, go and stand outside for a while, and then come back inside and make a very strong cup of tea.

The signatures matched Orochi Group communications equipment. Specifically the type deployed on Solomon Island around 2012, during the period of Project Polaris. Equipment that was officially decommissioned and removed when the project was terminated. Equipment that, according to every official record I've been able to find, no longer exists at that location.

I sat with that for three days before I posted anything. I ran the analysis four times. I sent my logs to two people I trust. I couldn't find another explanation. So on 10 June, I published what I'd found, and I told you what the signal pattern was telling me.

The transmission is geographically distributed. It is not a single broadcast to a single receiver. Based on the frequency mapping, it's split across five or six distinct streams, each one targeting a different part of the world. This was not an accident of engineering. This was a design decision. Someone built this system so that no single listener could ever intercept the complete message. You would need receivers positioned across every major timezone, comparing fragments side by side, before the whole thing becomes intelligible. Someone wanted to make absolutely certain that this could not be silenced by intercepting one signal. They planned for the possibility that any given receiver might be compromised, monitored, or shut down. So they made the message itself require a community to decode.

I've thought about that a lot over the past three weeks.

 

The other thing I told you on 10 June was this: all indications from the signal pattern suggested the transmission would fully activate at a specific time. Not gradually, not in stages. All at once, at a single moment, after years of dormancy.

3 July 2026. 18:00 UTC. Fourteen years to the day from the events at the lighthouse.

It is now 18:00 UTC on 3 July 2026, and the signal has activated exactly as predicted. Six streams, live, distributed globally, each carrying a fragment of something larger. I'm receiving my portion here. It is not enough on its own. I knew it wouldn't be. That's why I'm writing this, and that's why you need to keep reading.

In the three weeks since my first post, I've had time to go considerably deeper into the historical record around Project Polaris and the Orochi Group's presence on Solomon Island in 2012. I've been pulling apart what documentation I can access, cross-referencing emission profiles, building up a clearer picture of what was happening at that lighthouse fourteen years ago. The lighthouse keeper's name was Thomas Aldridge. He'd been there for years. He knew the building, the equipment, the rhythms of the place. When Orochi arrived with their installation team and their cover story about upgraded navigational equipment, he was the one who noticed first that something wasn't right. He was the one who started asking questions nobody wanted to answer.

What he found, from what I've been able to piece together, was that the equipment wasn't navigational at all. It was transmitting and receiving on frequencies far outside normal maritime bands. Whatever Project Polaris was actually doing at that lighthouse, it had nothing to do with maritime safety. Thomas tried to get the truth out. He contacted people. He documented what he'd seen. And then, on 14 June 2012, he did something extraordinary. He used Orochi's own equipment to broadcast a warning -- encoded, fragmented, distributed across multiple frequencies so that no single interception could suppress it completely.

He disappeared the next day. The official record says he abandoned his post.

I don't believe that. I don't think you do either.

What I believe is that the transmission system Thomas Aldridge built on 14 June 2012 has been sitting dormant in that lighthouse for fourteen years, cycling through its pre-activation sequences, waiting for the specific date and time he programmed into it. Today. Now. And whatever he encoded into it, he encoded it in fragments because he understood that the people who wanted to silence him were capable of silencing any single receiver. The only way to protect the message was to make the message itself a collective act.

 

Here's where I need you.

In the early hours of this morning, as the signal began its final pre-activation sequence, I managed to capture a fragment. About twenty seconds of audio before my equipment started throwing errors I've never encountered before. I don't know if that's a property of these particular frequencies, or whether something in the signal itself resists being cleanly recorded. I'm not ruling anything out at this point.

What I can tell you is that it isn't random. The white noise isn't behaving like white noise. I've been working with static long enough to know what random sounds like, and this isn't it. The gaps are too deliberate. Too even. There's a structure in there that I can almost but not quite resolve by ear -- something in the negative space, the silences between the bursts, that repeats in a way that feels like it means something. I've been listening to it for three hours and I keep going in circles. The harder I listen, the more it sounds like noise again.

I keep thinking about the difference between listening to something and looking at it. Audio can be represented visually, and I wonder whether the pattern I can almost hear might become far easier to discern when you're not relying purely on your ears to find it. There's information in this file. I'm certain of it. I just don't think my ears are the right tool for finding it.

Audio Fragment (Download)

Some of you have skills I don't. Signal processing. Audio restoration. Ways of looking at audio. If you've worked with corrupted audio before, or anything involving structured encoding buried inside apparent noise, I want your eyes on this. Deliberately your eyes, not just your ears. Download the file. Look at it. Tell me what you see.

I'll tell you one more thing, and then I'll let you get to work.

In amongst the static, one word surfaces. Faintly, partially, buried under layers of interference -- but it's there, and once you hear it you can't un-hear it. I've been sitting with it all morning trying to work out what it means in this context.

Terminal Access.

I don't know if that's a location, an instruction, or a warning. I don't know if Thomas Aldridge put it there deliberately or whether it's a fragment of something larger that the interference has swallowed. But I know that Orochi's archived infrastructure, the parts of it that didn't get properly scrubbed when Project Polaris was shut down, has been something I've been quietly mapping for the past two years. And there is one address in that infrastructure that I have never been able to get past the front door of.

https://orochi13.com/terminal

Whether the word in that audio file is pointing at that address, I genuinely don't know. I'm not going to tell you it's definitely connected. What I am going to say is that I don't believe in coincidences, and I've been doing this long enough to know that when something surfaces twice from two different directions, it's worth paying attention to.

Crack the audio first. Whatever's hidden in those gaps, I think that's where this begins.

 

Before you dive in, I want to point you towards Catboiler's stream. He's been a friend of this blog for longer than I can properly remember -- one of the first people I sent those initial signal logs to back in June, and one of only two people I trusted to check my analysis before I posted anything publicly. He's been following all of this just as closely as I have over the past three weeks, and he's live right now, walking through everything from the beginning: the background, the signal analysis, the community tools, all of it. If you want context before you start pulling apart audio files, his stream is where you want to be.

Catboiler is live now: https://twitch.tv/catboiler

When you're ready:

1. Download your audio fragment from the transmission hub.
2. Look at it. Not just listen to it.
3. Head to the Discord and share what you find.
4. We compare notes. All of us. Together.

There are no prizes for being first. There is genuinely no version of this that one person solves alone -- that's not me being modest about the difficulty, that's the architecture of the thing itself. Please share this post, especially with anyone you know in Asia, Oceania, and the Americas. We need every timezone covered. If one part of the world is missing, the picture stays incomplete.

Someone went to extraordinary lengths to ensure this message could not be stopped. They split it. They hid it. They set it on a timer and pointed it at all of us simultaneously, because that was the only way to make it safe to send. A warning that requires a community to decode is a warning that cannot be quietly buried.

Thomas Aldridge understood that. I think it's time we proved him right.

The spiral remains.

Jenna

3 July 2026 | feedthemoths.blogspot.com | Tags: kingsmouth, orochi, project polaris, signal collective, solomon island, thomas aldridge

Something is broadcasting from Kingsmouth Lighthouse

 

 

3 July 2026 | 00:14 UTC | Jenna McKendrick

 

I've been sitting on this for three days. I wanted to be certain before I posted anything, because the last thing I want to do is send people chasing static. But I've run the analysis four times now, shown the logs to two people I trust, and I can't find another explanation.

Something is broadcasting from Kingsmouth Lighthouse.

Three nights ago, at 18:47 UTC, I was running a routine frequency sweep across the Solomon Island coastal bands. I do this semi-regularly. It's mostly background noise, weather interference, the odd fishing vessel. Nothing interesting. But at 18:47 the equipment lit up in a way I haven't seen before. A structured transmission pattern, deliberate spacing, repeating sequences with layered signals underneath the primary track. Not interference. Not a ghost echo off the water. A broadcast.

I spent the next two hours trying to explain it away. Equipment fault. Atmospheric bounce from somewhere else. Anything. But the origin point kept resolving to the same location: Kingsmouth Lighthouse, Solomon Island. And when I started pulling apart the frequency signatures, that's when I had to put the headphones down and go make a cup of tea.

The signatures match Orochi Group communications equipment. Specifically the type deployed in the area around 2012. Equipment that was officially removed and decommissioned after Project Polaris was terminated. Equipment that, by any official record, no longer exists at that location.

I don't know how to explain that. I'm not going to try, not yet. What I can tell you is what the signal is doing.

 

SIGNAL ANALYSIS | 10 June 2026:

The transmission is geographically distributed. This is not a single broadcast to a single receiver. Based on the frequency mapping, the signal is split across what appears to be five or six distinct streams, each one targeting a different part of the world.

This was a design decision. Someone built this so that no single listener could intercept the complete message. You would need receivers across every major timezone, comparing fragments side by side, before the whole transmission becomes intelligible. Someone wanted to make absolutely certain this could not be silenced by intercepting one signal.

The lighthouse has been automated and silent since 2012. That's fourteen years. Whatever this transmission is, it's been dormant for all of that time, waiting. And all indications from the signal pattern suggest it is going to broadcast fully, actively, at a specific time.

3 July 2026. 18:00 UTC.

 

Fourteen years to the day.

 

---

 

Here's what I need from you. At 18:00 UTC on July 3 2026, the full transmission activates. I cannot hear all of it from here. Nobody can. That's the point. I need people in every timezone to download their fragment, and then we need to pool everything we have.

Before all of that, I'm going to be streaming everything I know from the beginning, walking through the signal analysis and setting up the community tools so we're organised when it goes live. Come and watch first if you want context.

 

Stream start times:

17:00 UTC / 18:00 BST / 13:00 EST

https://twitch.tv/catboiler

 

The signal itself goes live one hour into the stream, at 18:00 UTC (19:00 BST / 14:00 EST). At that point, head to the transmission hub, select your timezone, and download your fragment.

 

When the signal activates at 18:00 UTC:

1. Download your audio fragment.

2. Head to the stream and share what you have.

3. We compare notes. All of us. Together.

 

There are no prizes for being first. This one only works if we actually work together. Please share this post, especially with players you know in Asia, Oceania, and the Americas. We need every timezone represented.

I want to be honest with you. I don't know what we're going to find. I don't know why this transmission reactivated today, of all days. I don't know what Orochi were doing at that lighthouse in 2012, or why their equipment is still broadcasting fourteen years later, or who built it to distribute itself across the globe in fragments that require a community to reconstruct.

What I do know is that someone went to extraordinary lengths to make sure this message couldn't be stopped. They split it. They hid it. They set it on a timer and they pointed it at all of us.

I think we owe it to whoever sent it to actually listen.

 

The spiral remains.

 

Jenna

I Asked About 2012. They Asked Me to Leave.

 

Feed the Moths | Jenna McKendrik | Filed under: Kingsmouth, Things That Should Not Be Forgotten, Someone Is Reading My Notes

I pushed too hard.

I know. I know I know I know. You're not surprised. I'm not surprised. The only person who would be surprised is someone who has never read this blog, and if that's you — hello, welcome, this is probably not the best entry point but here we are.

I pushed too hard, the cheerful veneer cracked, and I found out some things I'm going to have difficulty unknowing.

Here's what happened.

 

The West Side

The street that doesn't appear on current maps is called Waites Lane.

I found the name on an older council document — pre-2013, pre-regeneration, pre-whatever-you-want-to-call-the-period-after-the-fog. It's a short residential street running parallel to the harbour on the western edge of town, tucked behind the old cannery building. On foot it takes about four minutes to walk end to end.

It did not get the bunting treatment.

The houses on Waites Lane are not derelict — someone is maintaining them, keeping the gutters clear, stopping the gardens from going fully feral. But they have the quality of places that have been maintained rather than lived in. Tidy in the way that empty things are tidy. No shoes by the doors. No bikes against the walls. Three out of seven houses with curtains still drawn at eleven in the morning, and not the curtains-against-the-sun kind of drawn. The other kind.

Except one.

Number four had its curtains open. Had a light on in the front room. Had, on the doorstep, a very old tabby cat who regarded me with the profound indifference of a creature that has seen things and filed them away and moved on.

I knocked on the door.

The People Who Remember

Her name is Dottie. She's in her seventies, she made me tea without asking if I wanted any (I did), and she has been living on Waites Lane since 1987. She was here in 2012. She was here in 2013 when the regeneration started. She has, in her words, "watched this town put on a costume and pretend to be somewhere else."

She wouldn't go on record. I'm not naming her surname. These are the rules and I agreed to them over the tea.

But here's what she told me, in broad terms, in the order she told me:

The fog in 2012 was not a weather event. This she states as simple fact, the way you'd state that the sea is salt. She doesn't elaborate because she doesn't think it needs elaboration.

The people who died — and people did die, whatever the official record says about accidents and a regrettable gas leak — were not all accounted for in the way the official record suggests. Some of the names on the memorial are wrong. Not fabricated. Wrong. Misattributed. She won't say more than that.

The regeneration funding arrived fast. Within six weeks of the fog clearing, there were surveyors on Waites Lane. She remembers it specifically because they came to her door and asked if she'd be willing to sell. She said no. They came back twice more, with incrementally better offers. She said no both times. They stopped coming, but she noticed that every other house on the street went quiet — owners relocated, she assumes, though she never saw any of them actually leave.

She doesn't know what BlackGlass is. When I mentioned the name she looked at me steadily for a moment and said: "That's new. They're usually better at staying nameless than that."

I wrote that down.

She noticed.

The Memorial

The 2012 memorial is in the small park at the top of Harbour Street, opposite what is now a very pleasant artisan bakery.

It's a good-looking memorial. Clean granite, well-maintained, a small garden of coastal plants around the base. From the street it reads as tasteful and appropriately sombre.

Two things, when you get close.

First: it faces north. Away from the harbour. You cannot see the water from where it stands, not even a glimpse between the buildings. In a harbour town, for an event that was centred on the harbour, this is an interesting choice. The park has clear sightlines to the water from three other positions. Someone chose this one specifically.

Second: the wording.

In memory of those lost during the events of October 2012. Kingsmouth remembers.

That's it. No names — there's a secondary plaque on the reverse with names, but the primary inscription is just that. The events of October 2012. Not the storm. Not the accident. Not anything specific. Just the events.

Kingsmouth remembers, says the memorial.

Kingsmouth is also working very hard to stop remembering, says everything else about this town.

The Building

This is where I pushed too hard.

Based on what Dottie told me, and on the contractor reference KM-2013-04 from the BlackGlass plate, I had a working theory that the groundworks weren't just for the harbour office. The project number suggested a wider scope. I wanted to know what else they'd been doing in 2013, and specifically whether any of it was on or near Waites Lane, where the surveyors had been so keen to buy up property.

The planning office on Marsh Road holds the full development records. They're public documents — technically accessible to anyone who submits a formal request.

I went in and asked.

The woman at the desk was professional and pleasant and found my request in the system within about thirty seconds, which told me it had been requested before and the response had been pre-loaded. She told me that the records for the 2013 groundworks project were not available for public access as they contained information pertaining to an ongoing infrastructure review.

I asked what infrastructure review.

She said she wasn't able to provide details.

I asked who I could speak to for more information.

She said she'd need to check, and would I like to take a seat.

I took a seat.

After about four minutes, a man came out from the back office. Not the planning officer — someone else. He was wearing a jacket that was slightly too good for a council planning office on a Tuesday morning, and he had the particular energy of someone who has done this specific thing before. Polite. Measured. Very clear.

He told me that the records I'd requested were subject to an exemption under the infrastructure protection provisions of the relevant act. He told me that if I had concerns about the development history of the area, I was welcome to submit a formal FOI request, which would be responded to within the statutory timeframe. He told me that he hoped I was enjoying my visit to Kingsmouth.

And then he held the door open.

Not aggressively. Not rudely. Just — held the door open, in a way that made clear that the conversation was over and my presence in the building was now, politely, concluded.

I left.

That Evening

I came back to the rental — a little place above a gift shop on the main street, very clean, very neutral, absolutely nothing wrong with it — and I sat down to write up my notes from the day.

My notebook was on the table where I'd left it.

The pen was on the wrong side.

I'm left-handed. I put pens on the left side of whatever I'm writing on, every time, without thinking. It's not a thing I decide. It's just what I do.

The pen was on the right.

The notebook was closed, which is how I'd left it. The contents, as far as I could tell, were undisturbed — nothing torn out, nothing added. Same notes in the same order.

But the pen was on the right side.

I sat with that for a while.

Then I photographed the room, packed my bag, checked out early, and drove until I hit the interstate.

What I Think Is Happening

Someone is managing the story of Kingsmouth, and they are good at it. They are so good at it that the town itself has mostly bought in — not through coercion, or not only through coercion, but through the gentler mechanism of making things nicer and hoping that people choose not to look too hard at the cost.

BlackGlass — and I'm more certain than ever that this traces back to Orochi, even if I can't prove the chain yet — was not just doing groundworks in 2013. They were doing something that required buying up a residential street, that required planning records to be sealed, that required a man in a good jacket to be available at short notice to show a blogger the door.

The fog is gone. The town looks fine. The memorial faces the wrong way.

And whatever was in the harbour wall cracks — whatever I photographed on the first day, whatever the council maintenance team cleaned off so efficiently on the second — I don't think it was left over from 2012.

I think it's new.

I'm Going Home. For Now.

I have photographs. I have notes that someone else has also read. I have a project reference number — KM-2013-04 — that I am going to pull on until something comes loose. I have a name, BlackGlass, appearing now in three separate investigations, and I have a very strong suspicion that the Black House files and the Lost Broadcast metadata are going to look different when I go back through them knowing what I know now.

I'm going home. I'm going to sit with everything I have, lay it out properly, and find the shape of it.

But I want to say one thing clearly, for the record, before I close this out.

Kingsmouth is not fine.

The bunting is lovely. The chowder is excellent. Dottie's cat is a treasure and I hope he lives forever. But underneath the fresh paint and the artisan preserves and the memorial that looks away from the water, something is still there. Something that BlackGlass came to manage in 2013, that they are apparently still managing now, that leaves traces in old harbour walls and in planning records that can't be seen and in the very specific quality of silence on Waites Lane.

The town decided to be fine.

That's not the same thing as being fine.

I'm going back.

Because someone in Kingsmouth is managing a story — and they care very much that I stop asking questions.

Which means, obviously, that I can't.

© Feed the Moths | All content Jenna McKendrik | The pen was on the right side. I know where I put it.