The Factory of Ghosts
The rain had started again.
Not the soft drizzle that kissed the earth with forgiveness, but a cold, metallic downpour that felt like punishment. It soaked through Calla’s coat, plastering her curls to her forehead as she stepped through the rusted iron gates of the old Everhart factory.
The place looked like it had been swallowed whole by time. The windows were jagged mouths gaping open in silent screams, the brick walls streaked with vines and graffiti. Everything about the building screamed abandoned, yet something drew her forward.
Not a duty. Not curiosity.
Blood.
Her boots crunched glass as she entered through a broken door. Each step echoed like a drumbeat, her breath visible in the air, chilled and unsteady. The silence was too complete, as if the factor
