On a Saturday in September, I was looking at the bubbles in my bowl of Rice Krispies – enjoying their "Snap, Crackle, Pop" when I received an odd text:

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File coming; Please publish immediately

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I didn't recognize the number, so I responded.

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Sorry - who is this?

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Stephen Boroughs. Is this Britain Morris?

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I knew no "Stephen Boroughs."

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Yes, but I'm afraid I don't remember you.

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Oh, you don't know me.  I need a website published asap.

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Now, being as a graphic designer / illustrator, I've made quite a few websites for clients over the years.  And I normally get new business via referrals. So the context for this conversation was familiar to me.  
 

But this client's urgency was something new.  I pulled out a pad of paper and a pen to start taking notes.

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Well, how quickly do you need a website and what is it for?

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Rose would have wanted it ASAP.

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I knew no "Rose."

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Can I call you, Stephen? It would be easier than texting.

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I waited for a response.  Nothing, not even the three little "writing" dots.  My Rice Krispies were losing their Krispness, so I went back to eating.

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Then suddenly, a new text arrived from an altogether new number:

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No - that would be too easy to trace.  I'll send you various files, which should shed more light on the project.

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I began to type that I wasn't able to take on a new client, but I was interrupted by a PDF arriving in the conversation thread.  Its file name was the confidence-boosting "WBK_VirusAttack_11-of-32.pdf."

 

Suddenly another conversation was created by the arrival of a text from yet another number.

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Before discarding, think: Who would mark a virus with 'virus' in the file name?

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And that was the last message I ever received from this mysterious Stephen Boroughs, although I did continue to receive more PDFs over the course of 4 years.  Each one came from a new phone number, though I assume it was Boroughs that sent them.  They would come out of the blue, sometimes with only a few days in between.  Other times there would be long stretches of months between files.  The file names all began with WBK, followed by an abbreviated title, and ending with some number out of 32, but this number didn't correspond with the order in which I was receiving the files.

 

I'm currently in possession of 13 of these files.  I didn't discard them, but I didn't read them at first.  It wasn't until after the 4th PDF arrived that my curiosity got the better of me.  That file was labeled "WBK_1SubRose_6-of-32.pdf."  To my surprise, I found that the PDF simply contained a poem (which you can read at this website listed as Chapter 6 here).

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Determined to better understand this mystery (and feeling a bit more reassured that there would be no harm done) I went began to read what I had received so far.  

 

What I found was ...remarkable.

 

I still do not know where these writings came from, but I have deemed them quite worth sharing.  So I have published the first 6 pieces here, arranged in the proper numerical order which also forms (best as I can tell) the best narrative.  

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Presented below is the content from "WBK_Pref_1-of-32.pdf"  The redactions are from the original:

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The donor, Rose –––––––, having requested that while vital organs should be available for any person in urgent need, the stapes (stirrup bone) of her right inner ear should be given a uniquely thorogh examination and considered for admittance into the Museum of Jurassic Technology's collection.

 

It is unclear exactly why the donor made such a request, and it is even more mysterious given subsequent discovery.  One can’t help but wonder if the donor knew of what would be found, though the implications of that possiblity would be mind boggling.  Granted, given what my colleagues and have discovered, ‘mind boggling’ would be par for the course.

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Naturally, the uproar that followed the discovery challenged the University of –––––––––––––– credibility.  But every subsequent examination yielded the same results.

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