Mannequin Factory

Won't you please come in?

Helloooo, Wattpad! This is Pen, and really excited to be publishing my first work here. The story was originally published on the Creepypasta Wikia, but, eh didn't do so hot. Hopefully, you guys like it though! Enjoy! Who knows, if this does well, I might do more for it.

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There was once a factory in the prairies. It was an old factory. Maybe something from the late 1700s. Nobody really knew what it used to make, or who had made it. Most believe the factory once made cloth. Some believed it was metal. Others don’t even recall the factory ever producing anything at all. It’s just always been there. Rotting.

Today, it is nothing but metal and moss. Mildew and rust. Sealed off long ago. Shepherds tended to stay away from it, because their sheep always disappeared if they wandered too close. They’d send their sheepdogs in, but the hounds would come running back out. The dark and foul scent of rotting metal kept most shepherds out, so they’d decided to stay away. Sometimes rebellious teenagers would pay it a visit, but they were always driven out by the sound of screeching metal, a ghastly wail. And the funniest thing about it is;

It liked to move.

Wandering the British Isles, appearing from town to town. It comes in a blanket of mist. Sometimes rain. And disappears the very next day. No one ever dared to come in. Parents warned their children, and they warned theirs. Generation to generation the warning was passed, but young minds could never resist curiosity. So despite the screeching metal and ghastly wails, they went inside, lanterns in hand (as time passed lanterns became flashlights, and flashlights became phone lights), and they never came back out.

Many times the parliament ordered the destruction of the factory, but each time it appeared, harsh rains (sometimes hail) and thick mist would stir. And the next day it would have gone. So caution became warnings, and warnings became law. It was an unspoken, unwritten law. But a law nonetheless. After all, what would other nations think if the British parliament believed and acknowledged such a silly folk lore?

My name is Angela. Angela White, and I am the only person who’s ever seen the inside of the factory, and stuck around to tell the tale. However, I will not be telling it to you. You will be experiencing it yourself.

Without further ado, let us begin.

You arrived in England but two days ago. You’ve rented a nice cottage in the countryside for a nice, quiet vacation. The rent was cheap, despite the quality of the cottage itself. The view was no disappointment either. Miles and miles of fields spotted with flowers, a forest in the background, and the occasional appearance of sheep. Not to mention the inclusion of a stable to your cottage. You rode to your heart’s content, had fun with the local people, and indulged yourself in their culture. Yet you wonder still, why the rent was so cheap.

The thump, thump, thump of your horse’s hooves cut through the silence around you. The fields were empty that day, not a single sheep or shepherd in sight. Not even the distant barking of sheepdogs could be heard, not a ray of sunlight to be seen. Even the sun decided not to show up that day.

BANG!!

Your horse jumps. Lightning strikes without warning. A whinny in alarm. A second later, you feel a drop of water on your head. Looking up, you see storm clouds rolling in; dark and thick. You try desperately to soothe your startled horse and regain control. Better escape the storm quick.

After a series of petting and persuasions, your horse begins to settle down. But by then, the drizzle had intensified, quickly turning into a storm that pounded violently onto you and your horse. Without hesitation, you urged the panicked steed into a canter, trying desperately to escape the rain and return to your cottage.