Windridge Notes

Chapter 5 | Wept

W E P T

. . .

The old factory.

It was once alive with the sound of machinery and workers, but now it stood as a decaying monument to forgotten labor, slowly being swallowed by nature. Vines crawled up the sides, and the bright red bricks were now dull and cracked, just like the memories that lingered here.

I stopped just outside the rusted iron gate, staring at the faded sign that read:

Leighton & Sons

EST. 1922

The name Wilden Leighton echoed in my mind. He owned the factory when the fire happened, but beyond that, Wilden was a mystery. His family had left Windridge after the fire shut the factory down for good and disappeared into obscurity.

But here I was, standing at the threshold of something much bigger. There was a pull, an almost magnetic force that urged me to push the gate open. The wind rustled through the trees behind me, carrying with it the faint scent of burning—an eerie echo of the fire that had once raged here.

I stepped inside cautiously, each footfall echoing in the hollow space. The factory was a maze of broken machinery, shattered windows, and forgotten memories. Dust and decay filled the air, but something else lingered too—something that felt unsettlingly alive. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.

As I ventured deeper, I spotted a staircase leading down to the basement. The metal steps were rusted and uneven, but I knew if there were any answers, they'd be hidden in the dark recesses below.

With a deep breath, I descended, each step creaking beneath me.

The basement was colder than the rest of the factory, the air damp and stale. My breath came out in visible puffs as I reached the bottom. It was a wide, empty space, with only a few remnants of old machinery and storage crates scattered about.

But something caught my eye—an old trunk, tucked away in the far corner of the room.

Dust covered the trunk, but the lock was broken, as if someone had pried it open in a hurry. My heart pounded as I knelt down and slowly lifted the lid. Inside, I found a collection of papers, old photographs, and journals—evidence of a life that had been left behind when the factory was abandoned.

I sifted through the papers, hands shaking as I recognized some of the names.

Wilden Leighton

Richard Leighton

Thomas Leighton

Lucas Crimsen

Crimsen... Liam...

When I pulled out an old photograph, my heart skipped a beat. It showed a group of men standing outside the factory, their faces serious and grim. In the center stood Wilden Leighton, tall and imposing, with sharp, calculating eyes. And beside him, younger but unmistakable, was Mr. Crimsen... Liam's father.

My mind raced, trying to make sense of it.

Liam never talked much about his father—he died when Liam was young, and his mother raised him and Lori on her own. I always assumed his father had been an ordinary man, just another worker in the village. But this... this was something else.

Then something else caught my eye—a small, folded piece of paper tucked into the corner of the trunk. I carefully unfolded it, revealing a hastily written note: