He addressed the small gathering. "The 1902 recording, Gentlemen. Recovered from de Vrise’s original cylinder by optical means. "

“If only Hardaker had lived to hear this,” interjected one “he knew the transcript: ‘Oh god, please, help’, etcetera. But the cylinder was long thought lost.”

“All those years of observation, and he never heard the ghost himself,” said another “though the reality of the phenomena he established beyond doubt. ‘A chamber wherein fruit doth wither, and grain spoileth and the flame consumeth not the candle’, as the source says.”

“Time distortion, certainly. But of what nature? And then Bill’s unfortunate death, in that very room. I warned him – his heart – but he wouldn’t…”

“Gentlemen – shall we hear the recording?”

Silence confirmed their assent. He leaned across, opened the file on the laptop. A hiss of white noise. And then suddenly, the voice, echoing across the chasm of a century: “Oh god, my god! Help me, God!”

Impossibly, unmistakably the voice of William Hardaker.