This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/newbieyeye63 on 2024-11-12 22:33:40+00:00.
I've been working in this textile factory for forty years now. I've seen them come and go - both the living and the dead. When Sarah walked in that morning, bright-eyed and full of hope, my heart sank. They always look like that at first. They never listen. They never believe. Something about her reminded me of myself, decades ago, before I learned the true nature of this place.
The memories flood back whenever a new face appears. Emily in '92 - she had that same determined walk, head held high despite the whispers from the old-timers. She lasted three weeks before the cutting machine claimed her. Maria in '98 - her laugh could light up the whole floor, until the day she answered a call for help that came from no living throat. And then there was Kate in '03, Lisa in '07, Amanda in '12... The list grows longer every year, and I force myself to remember each name, each face, each story. Someone has to carry their memories.
I watched Sarah fill out her paperwork, her hand steady and sure. If only she knew what those forms really meant - not just employment agreements, but potential obituaries waiting to be written.
The factory hasn't changed much since I started here in 1990. The same industrial lights flicker overhead, casting long shadows between the rows of machinery. The air still carries that distinct mix of cotton fibers and machine oil. But now it carries something else too - whispers, echoes, and the lingering presence of those who never left.
I remember my first day like it was yesterday. Margaret, the floor supervisor then, had given me the same tour I now give to others. She'd seemed distracted that day, her eyes constantly darting to empty corners of the room. I understand now what she was seeing. She didn't make it to retirement - lost to the cutting machine in '93. Sometimes I still hear her counting inventory in the storage room.
I try to warn them all, in my own way. During Sarah's lunch break, I pulled her aside. My hands were shaking - they always do now, after what I've seen. "There are things you need to know about this place," I told her, watching her young face for any sign of understanding.
"When you hear someone asking for help with their machine, don't go. Never go alone. Always verify with at least two other people that someone needs help. The voices... they're not always who they claim to be."
I remember giving the same warning to Jennifer in '05. She laughed it off. Three days later, we found her by the spinning wheel. The ghost that called her had worn my voice.
Sarah nodded politely, but I could see the skepticism in her eyes. They all have that look at first - that mixture of concern and pity for the old woman who's spent too many years among the machines. Some think I've inhaled too much cotton dust. Others assume the isolation has gotten to me. If only it were that simple.
Back in '97, I tried to document everything. I kept detailed records of every incident, every pattern I noticed. The way the machines would run at slightly different speeds just before someone died. The cold spots that would appear in new places. The voices that sounded just a little too perfect, too familiar. Management found my notebooks during a routine locker inspection. They sent me to three different psychiatrists. I learned to keep my observations to myself after that.
I watched Sarah during her first week, noting how quickly she picked up the work. She had good instincts around the machines, respected their power. But she was also kind - too kind. When Lucy from packaging called out sick, Sarah volunteered to cover part of her shift. She didn't know that Lucy had died in '01, and sometimes her ghost still punches in for the night shift.
I was in the break room when it happened. My sandwich sat untouched as I heard the commotion - running footsteps, a machine's terrible grinding, then silence. I knew before I even got up. They'd used my voice again.
I ran to the spinning room, my arthritis forgotten in the moment. But I was too late. I'm always too late. The spinning wheel was still humming, threads tangled in impossible ways. Sarah's body lay motionless beside it, her hand still reaching out to where she thought I had been standing, asking for help with a jammed mechanism.
The worst part is always the aftermath. The police investigations, the safety inspections, the grief counselors. They never find anything wrong with the machines. They never question why it's always the same machines, the same circumstances. The reports always read "operator error" or "failure to follow safety protocols." But how do you report that a ghost asked for help? How do you explain that the voice calling out in distress wasn't human at all?
Sometimes I wonder if I'm part of the curse too. Doomed to watch, to warn, but never to save. Forty years of the same story, different faces. The ghosts never take me - perhaps that's my real punishment.
The next morning, I stood in my usual spot, watching them cover Sarah's body. The machines hummed their eternal song, and I could already see her ghost forming in the corners of my vision - another shadow among shadows, another voice that would call out for help.
In Forty years, I've learned to recognize the different types of ghost-shine. The fresh ones glow brighter, still clinging to their last moments. Sarah's had that same desperate gleam I've seen too many times before. They all start the same way - confused, angry, desperate to understand what happened. Some fade with time, becoming mere whispers in the darkness. Others grow stronger, learning to mimic voices, to manipulate the machines.
I returned to my station, as I always do. The only living soul among the machines and their ghostly operators. Sometimes, in the quiet moments between shifts, I catch glimpses of all of them - Emily, Maria, Jennifer, and now Sarah. They watch me with hollow eyes, perhaps wondering why I survived while they didn't.
There was a time, years ago, when I tried to quit. I made it as far as the parking lot before the weight of responsibility pulled me back. Who would warn the new ones if I left? Who would remember their names, their stories? Who would know to look for the signs, to question the familiar voices calling out in the night shift? So I stayed, becoming as much a fixture of this place as the ghosts themselves.
Tomorrow, someone new will walk through those doors. And I'll try again, knowing it probably won't make a difference. Because that's my curse - to keep trying, to keep warning, to keep remembering. It's the least I can do for all the souls trapped in this place of endless shifts and eternal overtime.
The factory stands as it always has, a monument to progress and productivity, its windows gleaming in the morning sun. But I know its true nature now. It's not just a factory - it's a gathering place for the lost, a repository of voices that never quite fade away. And I remain its sole living witness, keeper of its dark secrets, guardian of its growing collection of shadows.
As the afternoon shift begins, I hear Sarah's voice for the first time since her death, calling out from near the spinning wheel. It's perfect, too perfect, just like all the others. I close my eyes and whisper a quiet prayer for whoever walks through those doors tomorrow. They never listen. They never believe. But I'll keep trying, because that's all I can do. That's all I've ever been able to do.