Chapter 14: The Creaking Door

Nathan's footsteps echoed in the hollow expanse of the factory, each step an intrusion upon the silence that had settled like dust over forgotten memories. The air was thick, stale, carrying the scent of rust and something far more insidious. Shadows slithered along the walls, curling around the rusted beams like specters waiting to pounce.

The whispers hadn't stopped.

They had grown more insistent, a chorus of distorted voices pressing against the edges of his mind. Some pleaded, others warned, but one voice—low and insidious—beckoned him forward.

At the center of the vast, decayed hall stood a door. It was different from the others, untouched by rust and decay, as if the years had failed to claim it. Its dark wood gleamed under the flickering light, and the brass handle seemed polished, as though someone had been waiting for his arrival.

Nathan swallowed against the tightness in his throat. His fingers tightened around the diary—his last tether to sanity. He could almost hear his mother's voice, a distant echo in his mind, urging him to turn back.

But there was no turning back now.

His hand trembled as he reached for the handle. The moment his fingers brushed against the cold brass, a shudder passed through him, like a ripple disturbing the surface of still water. The whispers ceased, replaced by a silence so profound it felt deafening.

Nathan hesitated, his breath coming in short gasps. The factory itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. With a final, steadying inhale, he turned the handle.

The door creaked open.

Darkness spilled out like ink, thick and impenetrable, swallowing the dim light behind him. It wasn't just an absence of light—it was something alive, something watching. A slow, deliberate gust of cold air pushed past him, carrying with it the faintest trace of something rotten.

Nathan stepped inside.

The door slammed shut behind him with a force that rattled the floor.

He spun around, his pulse hammering. The handle was gone. There was no keyhole, no visible way out. The darkness pressed against him, clinging to his skin like damp cloth.

Then, a light flared.

A single, flickering bulb swayed overhead, casting long, distorted shadows against the cracked concrete walls. The room was small, confined, and in the center stood a table. On it lay a reel-to-reel tape recorder, its reels motionless, waiting.

Nathan's breath came in shallow bursts. The last time he had encountered one of these, it had unveiled a truth he hadn't been ready to hear. And yet, here it was again, waiting for him to press play.

With fingers that felt detached from his own body, he reached forward and pressed the button.

A low hum crackled through the speaker. Then, a voice—familiar yet hollow, devoid of warmth.

"Nathan."

He stiffened. His name. Spoken with eerie precision.

"We knew you would come. We tried to leave this message, but the factory… it doesn't forget. It doesn't forgive. And now, it has you."

Nathan's heartbeat thundered in his ears. The voice—it was his father's. Warped, distant, but undeniably his.

"You need to listen. There is only one way to stop this. You must—"

Static erupted from the speaker, drowning out the words. Nathan's hands flew to the machine, his fingers fumbling with the dials, but the recording was lost in a storm of white noise. Then—

A whisper.

Not from the tape.

From the darkness beyond the light's reach.

Nathan's grip on the recorder tightened. His body screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go. His father's voice had told him there was a way to stop this—he had to know what it was.

Summoning every ounce of courage, he turned toward the darkness and spoke, his voice hoarse.

"What do you want from me?"

Silence. Then, the whisper returned, curling around him like unseen fingers.

"To remember."

The bulb overhead flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows that twisted and stretched. The walls groaned as if something massive was shifting just beyond them. The darkness swelled, inching closer, pressing against the light's feeble glow.

Nathan's breath hitched. "Remember what?"

The whisper curled into something almost resembling laughter. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, it retreated. The air around him lightened, the oppressive weight lifting ever so slightly.

The door was back.

Nathan didn't hesitate. He lunged for the handle, twisting it with desperate force. The door groaned open, and he stumbled through, gasping as he fell onto the cold factory floor.

The hall was as it had been—silent, still, untouched. The whispers had receded, but he knew better now.

They weren't gone.

They were waiting.

Nathan pushed himself up, gripping the diary in his trembling hands. His father's message had been cut off, but he had heard enough. There was a way to stop this. A way to end it all.

And he would find it.

Because now, more than ever, he knew the truth.

The factory wasn't haunted.

It was hungry.