04-03-2025, 10:58 PM
The deeper they moved into the factory, the more the world outside seemed like a half-remembered dream. Gone was the wind, the moonlight, even the distant drone of the city. Here, there was only the cold breath of rusted steel and the subtle creak of metal that hadn’t been touched by sunlight in decades.
They were in what had once been a processing floor: wide, open, and filled with rows of decaying equipment. Conveyors, machinery, and support beams loomed like skeletal remains of ancient, inhuman architecture. Their flashlights barely pierced the gloom, the beams swallowed by layers of dust and shadow. The air was colder now, and thick with a dampness that clung to skin and lungs alike.
They moved slowly, warily. Their footsteps echoing too loudly.
Zholdin stayed at the head, flashlight held low, scanning the path between rusted vats and tangled pipes. The floor beneath their feet was slick in places—oil, or something like it, and strewn with broken tools and occasionally discarded bones. No one dared ask what kind of bones, but he assumed they were vermin.
Behind him, the men were quieter now. The jokes had died in their throats. Limon walked with his mouth drawn tight, and even Alistair, solid as ever, kept his head low, eyes scanning every shifting shadow.
Then something changed.
There was a sound—barely audible. A rush of air, maybe. A scrape, too quick to place. It came from behind them.
Zholdin turned, flashlight arcing back. Seven men had come in. He counted, six.
“Where’s Rusik?” Mikov hissed, his voice sharp, panicked.
They spun their lights around, scanning the machinery behind them. Nothing. No blood, no scream, no sign of a struggle. Just… gone.
“He was right behind me,” Limon said, voice brittle with disbelief. “Right behind me. I swear it.”
“Then he should still be there,” Zholdin said coldly. He stepped past Limon and aimed his flashlight into the shadows where Rusik should have been. The beam wobbled, barely noticeable, but the others saw it, and it rattled them more than anything else.
“Rusik?” Mikov called, his voice cracking. “Oi! Quit screwin’ around!”
Silence.
Then, from somewhere deep in the shadow, came a soft, wet noise. Like something being dragged across concrete.
One of the gopniks tightened his grip on the iron rod he’d taken from a pile of scrap. “That wasn’t a damn bear,” he said, not shouting but loud enough that everyone heard. “Bears don’t move like that. They don’t take people like that.”
“It could’ve been a sinkhole, or he fell through a grate,” Zholdin said without looking at him. “We’re in a goddamn factory, not a forest. Watch your footing.”
“Sinkhole?” Limon dared laughed, too loud and too fast. “Boss, there’s no hole. There’s no blood. No nothing. You saw it—he was just there. And now he’s not.”
The group clustered closer, instinct pulling them into a tighter formation. Their flashlights danced wildly across walls and ceilings, searching for anything, anything that would make sense of who they’d just lost.
Zholdin stood apart, facing them. His light shone upward now, illuminating his face in stark, angular lines.
“If it’s not a bear,” he said, voice flat and calm, “then what is it?”
No one answered. The silence pressed in again. Something dripped in the distance. A high, keening creak echoed from the rafters.
“A spirit,” said one of the younger men—Grisha, barely twenty and already sweating. “There’s stories. About this place. People said it was cursed, back when it shut down. My uncle said—”
“Your uncle pisses in a bucket and hears voices in the television,” Zholdin snapped.
Grisha flinched.
“You’re grown men,” Zholdin continued. “Armed men. And you’re quaking like boys who’ve heard a noise under the bed.” His voice rose slightly—not a shout, but sharp enough to cut.
“Ghosts don’t leave claw marks. They don’t rip bones from deer. You’re all chasing stories because one of you went missing. Missing in a place full of rusted scaffolding, forgotten pits, and twisted steel.”
None of them looked convinced. “And yet,” Mikov said, “none of us heard a scream. None of us heard anything. Not even Rusik.”
Zholdin’s eyes met his. “Then maybe Rusik was weaker than he let on and ran away like a little girl. Good riddance,” and he spat at the ground.
No one spoke after that.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was full. Full of a listening presence, full of the sense that something was near, something vast and hungry that did not belong in the world of men. The kind of presence that made your skin crawl and your instincts whisper to run, run, run—but Zholdin stood firm, a dark silhouette in the ruinous light.
“Form up,” he said, turning again toward the deeper corridors. “We go forward.”
The others hesitated—just a breath, just a heartbeat—but then they moved, drawn by something stronger than their fear.
Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe it was madness. Or maybe it was simply that following Zholdin was still safer than being left alone.
Behind them, the dragging sound started again. Quieter this time. Closer.
They were in what had once been a processing floor: wide, open, and filled with rows of decaying equipment. Conveyors, machinery, and support beams loomed like skeletal remains of ancient, inhuman architecture. Their flashlights barely pierced the gloom, the beams swallowed by layers of dust and shadow. The air was colder now, and thick with a dampness that clung to skin and lungs alike.
They moved slowly, warily. Their footsteps echoing too loudly.
Zholdin stayed at the head, flashlight held low, scanning the path between rusted vats and tangled pipes. The floor beneath their feet was slick in places—oil, or something like it, and strewn with broken tools and occasionally discarded bones. No one dared ask what kind of bones, but he assumed they were vermin.
Behind him, the men were quieter now. The jokes had died in their throats. Limon walked with his mouth drawn tight, and even Alistair, solid as ever, kept his head low, eyes scanning every shifting shadow.
Then something changed.
There was a sound—barely audible. A rush of air, maybe. A scrape, too quick to place. It came from behind them.
Zholdin turned, flashlight arcing back. Seven men had come in. He counted, six.
“Where’s Rusik?” Mikov hissed, his voice sharp, panicked.
They spun their lights around, scanning the machinery behind them. Nothing. No blood, no scream, no sign of a struggle. Just… gone.
“He was right behind me,” Limon said, voice brittle with disbelief. “Right behind me. I swear it.”
“Then he should still be there,” Zholdin said coldly. He stepped past Limon and aimed his flashlight into the shadows where Rusik should have been. The beam wobbled, barely noticeable, but the others saw it, and it rattled them more than anything else.
“Rusik?” Mikov called, his voice cracking. “Oi! Quit screwin’ around!”
Silence.
Then, from somewhere deep in the shadow, came a soft, wet noise. Like something being dragged across concrete.
One of the gopniks tightened his grip on the iron rod he’d taken from a pile of scrap. “That wasn’t a damn bear,” he said, not shouting but loud enough that everyone heard. “Bears don’t move like that. They don’t take people like that.”
“It could’ve been a sinkhole, or he fell through a grate,” Zholdin said without looking at him. “We’re in a goddamn factory, not a forest. Watch your footing.”
“Sinkhole?” Limon dared laughed, too loud and too fast. “Boss, there’s no hole. There’s no blood. No nothing. You saw it—he was just there. And now he’s not.”
The group clustered closer, instinct pulling them into a tighter formation. Their flashlights danced wildly across walls and ceilings, searching for anything, anything that would make sense of who they’d just lost.
Zholdin stood apart, facing them. His light shone upward now, illuminating his face in stark, angular lines.
“If it’s not a bear,” he said, voice flat and calm, “then what is it?”
No one answered. The silence pressed in again. Something dripped in the distance. A high, keening creak echoed from the rafters.
“A spirit,” said one of the younger men—Grisha, barely twenty and already sweating. “There’s stories. About this place. People said it was cursed, back when it shut down. My uncle said—”
“Your uncle pisses in a bucket and hears voices in the television,” Zholdin snapped.
Grisha flinched.
“You’re grown men,” Zholdin continued. “Armed men. And you’re quaking like boys who’ve heard a noise under the bed.” His voice rose slightly—not a shout, but sharp enough to cut.
“Ghosts don’t leave claw marks. They don’t rip bones from deer. You’re all chasing stories because one of you went missing. Missing in a place full of rusted scaffolding, forgotten pits, and twisted steel.”
None of them looked convinced. “And yet,” Mikov said, “none of us heard a scream. None of us heard anything. Not even Rusik.”
Zholdin’s eyes met his. “Then maybe Rusik was weaker than he let on and ran away like a little girl. Good riddance,” and he spat at the ground.
No one spoke after that.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was full. Full of a listening presence, full of the sense that something was near, something vast and hungry that did not belong in the world of men. The kind of presence that made your skin crawl and your instincts whisper to run, run, run—but Zholdin stood firm, a dark silhouette in the ruinous light.
“Form up,” he said, turning again toward the deeper corridors. “We go forward.”
The others hesitated—just a breath, just a heartbeat—but then they moved, drawn by something stronger than their fear.
Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe it was madness. Or maybe it was simply that following Zholdin was still safer than being left alone.
Behind them, the dragging sound started again. Quieter this time. Closer.
There is nothing false in the words of demons