Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:05):
I was Caleb Thornberry, and three weeks before Halloween, I
was sleeping in my Honda Accord behind a Kansas City
truck stop, wondering how my life had gotten so small.
The car smelled like stale coffee and broken dreams, and
every morning I'd wake up with a crick in my
neck that reminded me how far I'd fallen. That's when
I found the Craigslist ad that would change everything. Night
(00:29):
janitor position eighteen dollars per hour, full benefits, housing provided
Warrenberg Dollworks immediate start. Eighteen dollars an hour was more
than I'd seen in months, and housing meant I could
finally get out of that damn car. I called the
number without thinking twice about why a doll factory needed
a night janitor so desperately, or why they were offering
(00:53):
benefits to someone they hadn't even met yet. The drive
to Warrenberg took me sixty miles southeast of Kansas City,
through rolling Missouri farmland that looked like something from a postcard.
The factory sat at the end of a gravel road,
a converted nineteen forties tobacco warehouse that someone had painted
red brick, but couldn't hide the industrial bones underneath. Those
(01:15):
tall windows looked like dead eyes staring out at the
surrounding cornfields, and something about the place made my skin crawl,
even before I knew what waited inside. They put me
up in Oakwood Estates, a trailer park that housed maintenance
workers and retired farmers, about five miles from the factory.
My trailer was small, but clean, with running water and
(01:37):
electricity that worked most of the time. After sleeping in
my car for two months, it felt like the Ritz Carlton.
I reported for my first shift at eleven thirty PM
on a Tuesday night in October. The air was crisp,
with that bite that promised winter was coming, and the
factory looked even more ominous in the darkness. Motion activated
(01:57):
lights flickered on as I approached the employee entrance, creating
shadows that seemed to move independently of their sources. That's
when I met Jeremiah Koig. He was waiting by the
loading dock, a weathered man in his seventies who looked
like he'd been carved from the same Missouri soil that
surrounded the factory. His hands were gnarled from fifty years
(02:18):
of maintenance work, and his eyes held the kind of
knowledge that comes from seeing things most people wouldn't believe.
You must be thornberry, he said, extending a hand that
felt like shaking hands with a tree root. I'm Jeremiah,
head of maintenance, been here since before you were born.
I shook his hand and tried to smile. Thanks for
(02:39):
the opportunity, mister Koig, I really need this job. His
expression grew serious, and he looked me up and down,
like he was measuring something inside me. This ain't like
other places, son. Eight protocols you follow to the letter,
or this job will be the last thing you ever do.
I've seen twelve men come through here in the past
five years. Seven of them didn't make it to see Christmas.
(03:04):
The way he said it made my blood run cold,
but I needed the work too badly to walk away.
What kind of protocols, the kind that keep you breathing,
he said, pulling out a ring of keys that must
have weighed five pounds. Come on, time for your education.
He led me through the employee entrance into what felt
like stepping into the belly of some massive industrial beast.
(03:25):
The factory floor stretched out before us, and cavern of
shadows and machinery that seemed to go on forever. Conveyor
belts snaked between workstations like mechanical arteries, and thousands of
doll parts hung from overhead hooks, creating a forest of
plastic limbs and painted faces that watched our every move
(03:46):
building was constructed in nineteen forty three, Jeremiah said, as
we walked, processed tobacco until nineteen sixty seven, then sat
empty for fifteen years before Warrenberg bought it. Some buildings
hold on to things you under stand. Memories get into
the walls, into the foundation. This place remembers things that
(04:06):
happened here, and some things that never happened at all.
We walked through the main production floor, our footsteps echoing
in the vast space. The motion activated lights followed us
like spotlights, creating pools of illumination that made the darkness
beyond seem even more absolute. I could smell machine oil
(04:26):
and something else underneath it, something organic and slightly sweet
that I couldn't identify. Your primary responsibility is cleaning and maintenance,
Jeremiah continued. But more important than that, you follow the protocols,
eight of them and they're not suggestions. They're the difference
between going home in the morning and becoming part of
the building's collection. We stopped at the showroom, a glass
(04:50):
enclosed area near the front of the factory where completed
dolls were displayed for buyers. Even in the dim light,
I could see dozens of them arranged on shelves and
in mis furniture setups. Their painted eyes seemed to track
our movement, and I had to remind myself it was
just an optical illusion. Protocol one, Jeremiah said, pointing to
(05:12):
a particular doll in the center display. Every night, first
thing you do is check this showroom. That's Daisy, been
here since the beginning. Sometimes she turns to face the
clown doll on the opposite shelf. When that happens, you
unlock the case, turn her head forward and whisper no
secrets tonight, you understand. I stared at the doll he'd indicated.
(05:36):
She was about two feet tall, with blond curls and
a blue dress, looking innocent enough except for her eyes.
There was something too knowing in those painted blue eyes,
something that made me want to look away. Why would
she turn, I asked, because she remembers things, Jeremiah said, simply,
(05:57):
Protocol two, Section C off limits between two and four.
A m machinery runs on automatic during those hours, but
you don't investigate. You hear sounds from there, you ignore them.
Production happens at night that ain't meant for human eyes.
He led me past rows of workstations toward the back
(06:17):
of the factory. Section C was marked with yellow caution
tape and warning signs, but I could see conveyor belts
and injection molding machines in the darkness beyond Protocol three.
Sometimes you'll find dolls that have moved during your shift.
Document their locations, but don't touch them until morning. They
arrange themselves, sometimes circles mostly, or you'll find them in
(06:40):
the break room sitting around the table. Just mark where
you found them and leave them be. We continued the
tour and I tried to process what he was telling me.
Part of me wanted to laugh, to dismiss this as
an elaborate prank played on new employees. But the serious
way Jeremiah spoke, the weight in his voice, told me
he believe every word. Protocol four is about the children,
(07:04):
he said. As we approached the employee breakroom between three
and three thirty am. You'll hear laughing children's voices clear
as day. When that happens, you come here, start the
coffee maker and wait until it stops brewing. The sounds
will stop with the coffee. The breakroom was standard industrial
fair folding table, plastic chairs, refrigerator, and a commercial coffee
(07:29):
maker that looked like it had seen better decades. But
something about the space felt wrong, like the walls had
absorbed too many conversations and couldn't hold them anymore. That's
four protocols, I said, what about the other four? We'll
get to those if you make it through tonight. Jeremiah said,
(07:50):
right now, you need to focus on learning these first.
Eleven forty five PM is when your shift officially starts.
I'll stay until you get the hang of things, but
by twelve thirty you're on your own until morning. He
handed me a radio, a clipboard, and a set of keys.
Radios for emergencies only, use channel seven clipboards for documenting
(08:13):
anything unusual. Time location description keys will get you into
everywhere you need to go and a few places you don't.
I looked at my watch. Eleven forty two pm three
minutes until I officially started the strangest job of my life.
Any questions, Jeremiah asked. I had about one hundred questions,
(08:35):
but I settled for the most practical one. What exactly
am I cleaning everything? He said, factory floor, break room, bathrooms, offices.
But remember the cleaning is secondary to the protocols. You
follow those eight rules and you might just live to
see another paycheck. At exactly eleven forty five pm, my
(08:57):
shift began. Jeremiah walked me through the basic cleaning routine,
where the supplies were kept, which areas needed daily attention,
how to operate the industrial floor polisher, but I could
tell he was distracted, constantly checking his watch and glancing
toward the darker corners of the factory. I'm going to
leave you to it, he said, at twelve thirty a m. Sharp.
(09:19):
Remember what I told you, follow the protocols and call
if you absolutely have to, but understand some nights help
can't reach you fast enough. Then he was gone, and
I was alone in that vast industrial cavern with nothing
but the motion activated lights and the weight of eight
(09:41):
protocols I didn't fully understand yet. I started with the showroom,
checking on Daisy as instructed. She was facing forward, her
painted smile innocent and sweet. The clown dol on the
opposite shelf grinned back at her with painted red lips
and hollow eyes. Everything seemed normal, but I'm made a
note on my clipboard anyway. Twelve thirty five am, show
(10:04):
room check, Daisy facing forward, no issues. The next hour
passed quietly as I worked my way through the basic
cleaning tasks. I swept the main floor, emptied trash bins,
and wiped down workstations. The factory felt massive around me,
full of shadows and mechanical shapes that looked different every
time the lights shifted. But it was just a building,
(10:27):
I told myself, just machines and plastic and nothing more.
At one fifteen am, I discovered my first displaced dolls.
They were in the south Wing assembly area, arranged in
a perfect circle around a workstation. Seven dolls of various
sizes and styles, all facing inward like they were having
a meeting. My skin crawled as I approached them, but
(10:51):
I remembered Protocol three, document but don't touch. One fifteen am,
South Wing Assembly, seven dolls arranged in circle around station twelve,
no signs of disturbance in surrounding area. Dolls appear to
be two baby dolls, three child dolls, two adult female dolls.
(11:12):
I took a step back and looked around for any
sign of how they might have gotten there. No footprints
in the dust, no indication that human hands had moved them.
They just sat there in their perfect circle, plastic eyes
staring at some invisible center point. The radio crackled to life,
making me jump. Thornberry, you copy, it was Jeremiah's voice.
(11:36):
I fumbled for the radio. Yeah, I'm here, just checking in.
Everything normal so far. I looked at the circle of dolls.
Define normal, you're learning, he said, and I could hear
the grim smile in his voice. Stay alert, The real
fun starts after two inches. At exactly two am, I
(11:58):
heard the machinery in section Sea come to life. The
sound was unlike anything I'd ever heard, not just the
mechanical grinding and whirring I expected, but something musical underneath it,
like a carousel playing a tune that was almost familiar,
but somehow wrong. I found myself walking toward the yellow
caution tape before I caught myself and remembered protocol too.
(12:22):
The temptation to investigate was overwhelming. The sounds from Section
C weren't just mechanical anymore, I could swear. I heard
voices mixed in with the machinery, high and sweet and
calling my name. But Jeremiah's warning echoed in my head.
Production happens at night that ain't meant for human eyes.
(12:43):
I forced myself to walk away and continue my cleaning routine,
but the sounds followed me through the factory. That twisted carousel,
music that made my teeth ache and my skin crawl.
Whatever was happening in Section C, it wasn't normal manufacturing.
At three twelve a m. I heard the children laughing.
(13:04):
The sound started soft, like it was coming from very
far away, then grew clearer and closer. Children's voices, bright
and happy, echoing through the factory like they were playing
hide and seek in the shadows. The laughter was infectious
and terrifying at the same time, innocent joy mixed with
something that didn't belong in this world. I ran to
(13:26):
the break room and started the coffee maker, my hands
shaking as I fumbled with the controls. The machine gurgled
to life, and slowly, gradually, the children's laughter faded until
only the sound of brewing coffee remained. When the coffee
finished brewing, complete silence fell over the factory. Even the
machinery in Section C had gone quiet. I stood in
(13:49):
that break room, breathing hard and wondering what the hell
I'd gotten myself into. That's when I found the wet footprints.
They led from the break room to the show room,
child sized prints that squelched slightly as I followed them.
The prints were fresh water still beating on the factory floor,
but there were no children in the building. There couldn't be.
(14:12):
The trail ended at the showroom, where Daisy still sat
in her display case, facing forward with that painted smile,
but now there were water droplets on the glass, as
if small hands had pressed against it from the inside.
I completed my first shift successfully, but as I walked
out of that factory at eight a m. I knew
(14:33):
I was in over my head. Whatever weighted in Warrenberg
Dollworks wasn't just about cleaning and maintenance. It was about survival,
and I was about to learn just how dangerous the
night shift could be. I stood there staring at those
wet child sized footprints, my heart hammering against my ribs
when I heard the employee entrance door bang open behind me.
(14:56):
Heavy boots crossed the factory floor, and I turned to
see Jeremiah walking toward me with a grim expression that
told me he knew exactly what I'd found. Saw the
lights from the parking lot, he said, stopping beside me
to examine the water droplets on the showroom glass. Figured
it was time to finish your education. Jeremiah, There are
(15:16):
wet footprints, I said, pointing at the obvious trail, child sized.
But there are no children in this building, aren't there.
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the water from
the glass case. You did good with Protocol four. Coffee
maker trick works every time, but it don't make them
go away permanent, like just gives you breathing room. I
(15:38):
watched him clean the glass with methodical precision, like this
was routine maintenance rather than evidence of something impossible. What
happens if I don't follow the protocols? You become part
of the building, he said, simply now come on, four
protocols down, four to go, and the harder ones are
still coming. He led me deeper into the fact past
(16:01):
section C, where the machinery had fallen silent toward an
area I hadn't explored yet. The motion activated lights followed us, reluctantly,
creating pockets of illumination that seemed smaller and weaker than before.
Protocol five, Jeremiah said, as we approached an old freight
elevator I hadn't noticed during my earlier tour. Sometimes this
(16:23):
elevator shows a third floor button. Building only has two floors,
but the elevator remembers when it had three. You see
that button appear, you radio me immediately and wait by
the loading dock. Don't get on, don't press it, don't
even look at it too long. The elevator was ancient,
with brass buttons worn smooth by decades of use. Currently
(16:47):
it showed only one and two, but I could see
a faint outline where a third button might appear, like
a shadow burned into the metal. Why the loading dock,
I asked, Because that's the only exit the building can't
seal off, he said. Protocol six. We're going to the
basement now. Sometimes you'll hear knocking from the storage boxes
(17:11):
down there. Ignore it completely, don't investigate, don't respond, don't
even acknowledge you hear it. Some things are better left alone.
The basement access was through a steel door marked storage,
authorized personnel only. Jeremiah's keys opened it with a rusty click,
and we descended concrete steps into a space that felt
(17:33):
older than the factory above. The air was thick and humid,
carrying scents of mildew and something sweetly organic that made
my stomach turn. The basement stretched out under the entire
factory floor, supported by thick concrete pillars, and filled with
rows of metal storage boxes stacked floor to ceiling. Each
(17:55):
box was labeled with dates going back decades, and some
of the older ones showed rusts stains that looked disturbingly
like dried blood. This is where they keep the discontinued models,
Jeremiah explained as we walked between the rows. Dolls that
didn't sell, prototypes that didn't work out, special orders that
got canceled. But some boxes hold other things. What other things,
(18:19):
Things that used to be people, he said quietly. Protocol seven.
Between four and five a m. You'll hear footsteps on
the factory catwalk above, heavy boots walking back and forth,
like someone's making rounds. When that happens, you keep your
head down and count to one hundred. Don't look up,
don't try to see who it is, because there ain't
(18:39):
nobody up there. We stopped at the far end of
the basement, where a wall held twelve framed photographs arranged
like a memorial. Each photo showed a different person, men
and women of various ages, all wearing factory uniforms. Below
each photo was a name, a date of hire, and
a date of death. Tommy Hutchins, Jeremiah said, pointing to
(19:04):
a photo of a young man with kind eyes and
a nervous smile. Started here three years ago. October fifteenth,
found him locked inside one of these storage boxes. On
November two. Medical examiner said he'd been dead for two weeks,
but we had security footage of him working his shift
the night before. I studied Tommy's photo, trying to understand
(19:26):
what Jeremiah was telling me. How is that possible? Time
works different here some nights, he said, building holds on
to things, like I told you, Sometimes it holds on
to people too, keeps them working long after they should
have stopped. The other photos told similar stories workers who
(19:47):
disappeared during night shifts found dead in impossible circumstances, or
simply vanished without a trace. Most of the death dates
clustered around October and November deduction season. Jeremiah explained, Halloween orders,
Christmas rush. That's when the building gets hungry, when it
needs the most help. And it's almost that time again.
(20:11):
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with
the basement temperature. What do you mean almost that time?
October thirty first is next week, he said, Full production runs,
scheduled overtime shifts, all hands on deck. Companies expecting their
biggest order ever, fifty thousand units for a major retailer.
(20:34):
That's a lot of work for a building that already
has too many memories. He led me back toward the stairs,
but stopped at a storage box marked October twenty twenty
one Special Handling. Unlike the others, this one had fresh
scratches around the lock and what looked like finger marks
pressed into the metal. Protocol eight, Jeremiah said, his voice
(20:55):
dropping to almost a whisper. Little girl in blue dress.
She shows up when things get bad, usually around five
or six am. Always the same, blonde curls, blue dress
with white collar, patent leather shoes. When you see her.
You ask if she's looking for her mother. If she nods,
you take her to the showroom and point to Daisy.
(21:17):
If she shakes her head, he paused, meeting my eyes.
You run fast as you can, don't look back. Get
out of the building and call me. Who is she?
First casualty, he said, nineteen sixty seven, when they shut
down the tobacco operation, Little Sarah Whitman, daughter of the
(21:37):
night watchman, found her in the basement, but by then
it was too late. Building had already claimed her. We
climbed back to the main floor and I checked my
watch three forty seven a m. The factory felt different now,
heavier somehow, like the air itself was pressing down on me.
The shadows seemed deeper, and I could swear I heard
(21:58):
whispers coming from the dark span between the machinery. That's
all eight protocols, Jeremiah said. Follow them exactly, and you'll
probably survive your probationary period. Probably what happens after probation,
we'll worry about that if you make it that far,
he said, heading toward the exit. I'm going home now.
(22:20):
Rest of the shift is yours. I wanted to ask
him to stay to not leave me alone with whatever
haunted this place. But I needed the job too badly.
What if something goes wrong, follow the protocols, he said,
and remember some of the things you'll see ain't really there,
(22:41):
but some of them used to be. Learning the difference
is part of staying alive. Then he was gone again,
and I was alone, with four hours left on my
shift and four new protocols to remember. At four fifteen
a m. I heard the footsteps on the catwalk, heavy boots,
steady and methodical, walking the length of the factory overhead.
(23:04):
I was mopping the floor near the main assembly line
when the sound started, and every instinct told me to
look up to see who was making rounds in a
building that should have been empty. Instead, I kept my
head down and started counting one, two, three. The footsteps
continued back and forth above me, like a security guard
(23:27):
making his patrol. Fifteen sixteen seventeen. I focused on the mop,
on the rhythm of cleaning, on anything except the impossible
sound overhead. Forty three, forty four, forty five. At count
sixty seven, something heavy fell from the catwalk and crashed
(23:48):
into a workstation twenty feet away from me. Metal screamed,
against metal, and I heard what sounded like a man's
voice cry out in pain. But I kept counting, kept
my eyes down, kept mopping eighty eight, eighty nine ninety.
At one hundred, the footsteps stopped. The factory fell silent
(24:08):
except for the hum of the air conditioning and my
own ragged breathing. When I finally looked up, the catwalk
was empty, but the workstation that had been struck was
completely destroyed. Metal twisted like something massive had fallen on it.
I documented the incident, but didn't investigate further. Protocol seven
had been crystal clear about that. At five thirty a m.
(24:32):
I decided to check the basement storage area, telling myself
it was part of my cleaning duties. The truth was
I needed to understand what I was dealing with, even
if the protocols warned against it. The basement felt different
in the pre dawn hours, more alive. Somehow, the air
moved when it shouldn't, and I could swear I heard
voices whispering from between the storage boxes, But it was
(24:55):
the knocking that made my blood freeze. It started soft,
like someone tapping politely on wood. Then it grew louder,
more insistent, coming from multiple boxes at once, Tap tap
tap from the left, bang bang bang from the right,
A rhythmic pounding that sounded almost like morse code. From
somewhere behind me. I remembered Protocol six, ignore completely, never investigate.
(25:22):
But the knocking was so human, so desperate, like people
trapped inside those metal boxes were begging for help. One
particular sound, coming from the box marked October twenty twenty one,
sounded exactly like someone spelling out sos in morse code.
I forced myself to turn around and walk away, but
(25:43):
the knocking followed me up the stairs and continued for
another ten minutes before finally stopping. At exactly six a m.
I saw the little girl in the blue dress. She
was standing at the far end of the main assembly line,
perfectly still among the machinery. Blonde curls, blue dress with
white collar, patent leather shoes that reflected the overhead lights.
(26:04):
She looked solid, real, like any normal child, except for
her eyes. Even from fifty feet away, I could see
that her eyes were completely black. I approached slowly, remembering
Protocol eight word for word. When I was close enough
to speak normally, I asked the question, are you looking
for your mother. The little girl nodded solemnly. Relief flooded
(26:28):
through me as I remembered what to do next. I
took her small, cold hand, it felt like touching marble,
and led her to the showroom. She walked beside me
without making a sound, her patent leather shoes clicking silently
on the factory floor. At the showroom, I pointed to
Daisy in her display case. There she is, I said softly.
(26:50):
The little girl smiled for the first time, a expression
that would have been sweet on any other child, but
looked terrifying on her pale face. She pressed her free
hand against the glass, leaving a small hand print, then
faded away like mist in sunlight. The hand print remained
on the glass, small and perfect, next to the water
(27:11):
droplets I'd found earlier. I completed the rest of my
shift without incident, but by the time eight a m
rolled around, I was exhausted in ways I'd never experienced before.
It wasn't just physical tiredness. It was the bone deep
weariness that comes from having your understanding of reality fundamentally shaken.
As I walked out of Warrenberg Dollwarks that morning, I
(27:34):
should have felt relief. I had survived my first night,
followed all eight protocols successfully, and earned my first decent
paycheck in months. Instead, I felt a growing dread about
returning for my second shift. The factory had tested me
and I'd passed, but I had the unsettling feeling that
the real tests were still coming, and Halloween was only
(27:56):
one week away. Whatever waited for me in that building
I was going to face again in twelve hours. I
spent that day in my trailer at Oakwood Estates, trying
to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I
saw that little girl in the blue dress pressing her
hand against the showroom glass. The handprint she'd left behind
had been real. I'd touched it myself before leaving the factory.
(28:18):
Whatever was happening at Warrenberg Doll Works wasn't just in
my head. By six pm, I knew sleep wasn't coming.
I sat at my kitchen table, drinking instant coffee and
staring at the factory paycheck that represented more money than
I'd seen in months, eighteen dollars an hour, benefits, and housing.
All I had to do was survive whatever haunted that
(28:40):
building long enough to collect it. When I arrived for
my second shift at eleven thirty pm on October thirty. First,
I immediately knew something was different. The parking lot was
fuller than it had been the night before, with several
cars I didn't recognize. More concerning were the additional lights
blazing in the factory windows and the sound of machinery
(29:02):
running at full capacity. Jeremiah met me at the employee entrance,
but this time he wasn't alone. A woman in her
forties with graying hair and calloused hands stood beside him,
wearing the same factory uniform i'd been issued. This is
Ava Zimmerman, Jeremiah said, by way of introduction, runs the
(29:22):
swing shift crew. They'll be working until two am tonight.
Ava looked me up and down with the critical eye
of someone who'd seen too many new hires come and go.
You're the one who made it through his first night,
She said, good for you. Most don't Corporate wants a
full production run through the holiday weekend, Jeremiah explained, handing
(29:45):
me a second radio, fifty thousand units for the Christmas rush,
plus special Halloween orders that came in last minute. Channel
three for swing shift coordination, Channel seven for emergencies, like before.
I clipped both radios to ti my belt, feeling their
weight like anchors. What kind of special orders custom dolls?
(30:07):
Ava said grimly, Collectors who want replicas of specific children
always comes in around Halloween, always makes the building restless.
Jeremiah checked his watch. Halloween night changes things. Building remembers
what it used to be, gets confused about which year
it is. Protocols still apply, but be ready for variations.
(30:30):
Things that shouldn't happen might happen anyway. They escorted me inside,
where I could see Ava's swingshift crew working at various
stations throughout the factory floor. The additional activity should have
made the place feel more normal, more human. Instead, it
felt like we were intruders in something else's territory. My
(30:50):
first stop was the showroom for the mandatory Protocol one check,
but what I found there made my blood run cold.
Daisy wasn't in her display case. She was on the
floor facing the clown doll, whose own position had been altered.
Both dolls were arranged as if they were having a conversation.
Their painted eyes locked on each other with an intensity
(31:10):
that seemed impossible for inanimate objects. I unlocked the case
with shaking hands and reached for Daisy, But the moment
I touched her, I heard a whisper, clear as day
too late. The voice was childlike but wrong, like an
adult mimicking a child's speech. I spun around, looking for
the source, but saw only empty factory floor and distant
(31:32):
swingshift workers who couldn't have been close enough to whisper
in my ear. I turned Daisy's head forward and whispered
the prescribed words, no secrets tonight. But even as I
spoke them, I had the unsettling feeling that the protocols
weren't going to be enough tonight. Eleven forty seven pm,
showroom anomaly. Daisy and clown doll repositioned whispered response. During adjustment,
(31:57):
I wrote on my clipboard, my handwriting shit shier than
I wanted to admit. The next hour passed with unusual activity.
Throughout the factory, ava's crew worked efficiently, but I noticed
they stayed in groups, never venturing alone into the darker
sections of the building. They'd acknowledged me with nods when
our paths crossed, but nobody seemed inclined to make conversation.
(32:20):
At twelve forty five am, I discovered something that shouldn't
have existed. In the southeast corner of the factory, near
one of the older assembly stations, three dolls had arranged
themselves around a miniature tea set. The tiny cups and
saucers were positioned perfectly, as if interrupted mid party. But
one of the dolls, a brunette in a yellow dress,
(32:42):
had soaking wet hair that dripped steadily onto the factory floor.
The water was warm when I knelt to examine it,
and it smelled like swimming pool chlorine mixed with something
organic I couldn't identify. According to Protocol three, I should
document but not touch, so I made my notes and
backed away, But the image stayed with me. Three dolls
(33:03):
having tea, one of them dripping wet, as if she'd
just been pulled from water. Twelve forty five a m.
Southeast station, Three dolls arranged around tea set. Brunette doll
has wet hair, warm water with chemical smell. I documented,
trying to keep my handwriting steady. At one thirty a m.
The sounds from Section CE changed completely. Instead of the
(33:27):
usual mechanical grinding i'd heard the night before, music box
melodies mixed with wind chimes drifted from the forbidden area.
The tune was familiar, Ring around the Rosy, played at
half speed with harmonics that made my teeth ache. Underlying
the music were other sounds, children's voices singing along, the
squeak of swings, the bounce of balls against pavement. It
(33:51):
sounded like a playground, not a manufacturing area. Ava's voice
crackled over Channel three night janitor U hearing this, I
keyed the radio. Yeah, I hear it. Stay clear of
Section C tonight. Whatever's running in there at ain't r machinery.
Through the yellow caution tape, I could see lights moving
(34:13):
in patterns that defied the factory's electrical layout. Not the
steady glow of work lights, but something that pulsed and
swirled like colored spotlights at a carnival. The air around
Section C felt different, too, warmer and humid, carrying sense
that reminded me of cotton candy and birthday cake. At
(34:33):
two am, sharp, Ava's swingshift crew packed up and left.
I watched their cars disappear down the gravel road, leaving
me alone with whatever was transforming the factory around me.
That's when the children started calling my name. KLB. The
voice was high and sweet, echoing from the far end
of the factory. KLB, come play with us. More voices
(34:59):
joined in a chorus of children, calling my name with
increasing urgency. Caleb, we've been waiting for you, Come play.
The realization hit me like ice water. They knew who
I was. These weren't random supernatural phenomena. Whatever haunted this
place had been studying me, learning about me, preparing for
(35:20):
this moment. Caleb, don't be scared. We just want to play.
I tried to ignore the voices and continue my cleaning routine,
but they followed me through the factory, always coming from
whatever direction I wasn't facing. When I turned to look,
I'd catch glimpses of movement in the shadows, small figures
(35:41):
darting between machinery, the flash of colorful clothing, hands waving
from impossibly high perches. At two fifteen a m. The
voices became more insistent. Please, Caleb, we're so lonely. Come
play Hide and seek. We know games you've never played. Me.
Four the birthday party is starting soon. You can't miss it.
(36:05):
The birthday party reference made my skin crawl. The sense
i'd noticed earlier cake and cotton candy were growing stronger,
as if an invisible celebration was taking place all around me.
But birthday parties were supposed to be joyful, and there
was nothing joyful about the hungry desperation I heard in
those children's voices. At three a m. I broke protocol.
(36:30):
The voices had been calling my name for forty five
minutes straight, and my nerves were shredded. When I heard
the familiar sound of children's laughter that should have triggered
Protocol four. I ran to the break room and started
the coffee maker without checking the time. It was the
wrong time. Protocol four specified three a m to three
thirty a m, and it was exactly three a m.
(36:52):
But the supernatural pressure in the building felt like a
weight on my chest, and I needed the comfort of
following familiar procedures. The coffee maker gurgled to life, but
this time the children's laughter didn't stop. Instead, it grew louder,
more excited, as if my deviation from the protocol had
given them permission to break their own rules. He's learning,
(37:13):
he's learning to play. Almost time, Almost time for the
birthday party. The sense of cake and cotton candy became overwhelming,
sickeningly sweet. In the stale factory air, I could swear
I heard party horns in the distance, and the sound
of children singing Happy Birthday in voices that were almost
(37:33):
but not quite human. At three forty five a m.
She appeared. The little girl in the blue dress stood
at the entrance to the break room. But this time
something was different. She looked exactly like Daisy from the
showroom display, the same blonde curls, the same blue dress
with white collar, the same patent leather shoes, but her
(37:55):
eyes were alive in a way Daisy's painted eyes could
never be. Are you looking for your mother? I asked,
following Protocol eight, exactly as I had the night before.
The little girl's expression changed. Instead of the solemn nod
I expected, she shook her head slowly from side to side.
(38:15):
According to Protocol eight, this was when I should run
fast as I could, don't look back, get out of
the building. But something in her face stopped me. She
looked so small, so lost, and the fear in her
living eyes seemed genuine. What are you looking for? I asked,
abandoning the protocol entirely. She smiled then, an expression that
(38:39):
was both innocent and ancient. She held out her small
hand to me, palm up waiting. I knew I should run.
Every survival instinct screamed at me to get out of
that building. But I also knew that running wouldn't solve anything.
Whatever was happening at Warrenberg Doll Works was building towards
something bigger, and Alloween night was just the beginning. I
(39:02):
took her hand. The moment our skin touched, the factory
began to change around us. The industrial lighting dimmed and warmed,
taking on the soft glow of bedroom lamps. The concrete
floor beneath my feet became hardwood, and I could hear
the sounds of children playing, real children, happy and alive
somewhere just out of sight. The walls shifted and flowed
(39:25):
like liquid machinery, dissolving into furniture that belonged in a
child's play room. Conveyor belts became toy train tracks, injection
molding machines transformed into elaborate dollhouses, and the catwalk overhead
became a canopy of colorful streamers and balloons. Through it all,
the little girl held my hand and led me deeper
(39:46):
into what the factory was becoming behind us. I could
hear more children following their footsteps reel now, their laughter
warm and genuine instead of the hollow echo it had
been before. Welcome to the the birthday party, Caleb, the
little girl said, in a voice like silver bells. We've
been waiting so long for someone who would stay and play.
(40:09):
I looked around at the transformed factory, at the impossible
playground that had replaced the industrial nightmare i'd been working in.
Somewhere in the distance, I could hear Happy Birthday being
sung by dozens of children's voices, and I realized that
whatever was happening here, I was no longer just a
witness to it. I had become part of it. As
(40:31):
we walked deeper into the transformed space, past doll houses
that breathed in toy trains that whispered secrets, I understood
that my second night at Warrenburg Doll Works was going
to be very different from my first. The protocols had
prepared me to survive the building's haunting, but they hadn't
prepared me for what would happen if I chose to
(40:52):
accept its invitation instead. The little girl's hand felt warm
and real in mine, as she led me through what
the factory had become. The industrial nightmare i'd been working
in for two nights had transformed into something that belonged
in a child's bedroom from the nineteen fifties. Wall paper
(41:12):
with cheerful circus animals, hardwood floors covered with braided rugs,
and furniture scaled for small bodies. But it wasn't the
transformation itself that made my breath catch in my throat.
It was seeing the dolls. Every doll from the showroom
was moving freely through the space, their painted faces animated
(41:33):
with personalities I could never have imagined. Daisy walked beside
a baby doll who babbled contentedly in her arms. The
clown doll juggled invisible balls while humming a tune. I
almost recognized. A bride doll swept across the floor in
an eternal waltz with a groom whose paint had worn
away decades ago. They're beautiful, aren't they? The little girl said,
(41:59):
her voice, caring the same silver bell quality i'd heard before.
They've been waiting so long to play properly. I watched
a cowboy doll tip his hat to a ballerina who
curtsied in return, and I realized these weren't just animated objects.
They moved with purpose, with memory, with something that resembled
genuine emotion. What are they, I asked the forgotten she said,
(42:24):
simply imaginary friends who were abandoned, toys that were thrown away,
dolls that were left behind when children grew up. They
came here because it was the only place that remembered
how to love them. We walked deeper into the transformed space,
past dollhouses that breathed softly and toy trains that whispered
secrets to each other as they rolled along impossible tracks
(42:47):
that defied gravity. The birthday party sounds i'd been hearing
grew clearer, children singing party horns, blowing, the rustle of
gift wrapping being torn away. But where are the children,
I asked. The little girl's expression grew sad, gone grown up,
moved away, forgot us. She squeezed my hand tighter. That's
(43:11):
why we need new friends. Friends who won't forget, who
won't grow up, who won't leave. That's when I saw
section C. The yellow caution tape had dissolved away, revealing
an area that no longer looked like a manufacturing floor. Instead,
it had become a workshop, but not for making dolls.
(43:33):
This was a workshop for making friends that would never leave.
Surgical tables lined the space, each one equipped with restraints
and surrounded by tools that had been miniaturized for delicate work,
tiny scalpels, needle thin sutures, paint brushes so fine they
could detail individual eyelashes. Above each table hung a collection
(43:53):
of human sized marionette strings, and suspended from those strings,
painted and dressed like oversize dolls, were the former employees
I'd seen in the memorial photos. They hung motionless until
I entered the workshop. Then their heads turned toward me
in perfect unison. Their faces had been painted with rosy
cheeks and bright red lips, their eyes enlarged with careful
(44:16):
brushwork to look more doll like, But underneath the paint,
I could see their real eyes, very much alive and
filled with a terror that had been trapped for years. Tommy,
I whispered, recognizing the young man from the photograph. The
figure suspended nearest to me nodded slowly, the movement accompanied
(44:36):
by the squeak of marionette joints when he opened his
mouth to speak. His voice came out in the mechanical
cadence of a talking doll. Still learning to dance, he said,
his painted smile never changing even as tears rolled down
his cheeks. Been practicing for three years. Almost got it right.
(44:58):
I looked around the workshop in horror, counting at least
a dozen human puppets suspended from the ceiling. Some were
employees I'd seen in the memorial photos. Others were strangers
who must have wandered into the factory over the decades.
All of them had been converted into perfect little friends
who would never break, never age, never leave. Isn't it wonderful?
(45:20):
The little girl asked, watching my reaction with eager anticipation.
We can all be together forever. No one has to
be lonely anymore. That's when I heard the familiar sound
of heavy boots on the factory floor behind us. I
turned to see Jeremiah walking through the transformed space, completely
unaffected by the supernatural changes around him. In his hands,
(45:44):
he carried a balpen hammer that looked ordinary except for
the symbols carved into its handle. Caleb, he called out,
his voice, cutting through the birthday party atmosphere like a
knife step away from her now. The little girl's grip
on my hand tightened painfully. Don't listen to him, she said,
(46:07):
her silver bell voice taking on a desperate edge. He
wants to hurt us, he wants to send us back
to the darkness. Jeremiah stopped at the edge of the workshop,
raising his hammer. This is Protocol nine, boy, the one
I hoped you'd never need to learn. Thirteen strikes on
the load bearing pillars. In sequence, it'll wake the building,
(46:29):
disrupt the influence that's got hold of you. Wake the building,
I asked, still processing what I was seeing. Building's been
sleeping for decades, dreaming these children's dreams. But the dreams
have gone sour, turned into nightmares that trap people instead
of comforting them. He pointed the hammer at the nearest
(46:50):
concrete pillar. Foundation remembers what it was built on. Strike
it right, and it'll remember. It's supposed to hold up
a factory, not a place. The little girl released my
hand and stepped back, her expression shifting from sweetness to
something much older and more dangerous. You can't take him
(47:11):
away from us. We need him. You need to let
these people go, Jeremiah said firmly. Tommy and the others.
They don't belong to you. Around us, the animated dolls
had stopped their play and were gathering in a circle.
Their painted faces no longer looked cheerful. They looked hungry, desperate,
(47:32):
like children who'd been denied a promised treat. Jeremiah raised
his hammer and struck the first pillar. The sound rang
out like a bell, and immediately I felt something shift
in the air around us. The nineteen fifties bedroom esthetic
flickered like a television with poor reception, and for a
moment I could see the industrial machinery underneath one He counted,
(47:55):
moving to the second pillar, the little girl screamed that
was no longer silver bells, but broken glass and grinding metal.
The dolls around us began to move with jerky, aggressive motions,
their painted smiles stretching into grimaces. Jeremiah struck the second pillar.
Two cracks appeared in the hardwood floor, revealing the concrete underneath.
(48:21):
The wallpaper began to peel away in long strips, exposing
the red brick walls of the original factory. But something
else was happening too. The cracks were spreading deeper than
they should, revealing darkness. Beneath the foundation that seemed to
go on forever. Three another strike, another reality shift. That's
(48:43):
when I saw them climbing up through the cracks, the
forgotten in their original forms, Not the animated dolls or
the sweet little girl, but the things they'd been before
they learned to wear pleasant faces, stick figure creatures made
of shadow and sharp angles, geometric nightmares that hurt to
look at directly, and things that existed in too many
(49:05):
dimensions for my eyes to properly process. Four five six.
Jeremiah worked methodically, but I could see the strain on
his face as more creatures emerged from the darkness below.
The largest of them pulled itself up through a crack
near Section C, A massive, constantly shifting thing that might
(49:27):
have been the first imaginary friend ever abandoned, grown huge
and twisted from centuries of loneliness. It had no fixed shape,
flowing between the form of a child's drawing and something
that belonged in cosmic horror. The first forgotten, the little
girl said, her voice now layered with harmonics that made
(49:49):
my teeth ache. It's been waiting so long to have
friends who won't leave. Seven eight nine, Jeremiah was sweating now,
his hammer strikes becoming more desperate. As the creatures pressed closer,
I realized he wasn't going to make it to thirteen
strikes on his own. The Forgotten were surrounding him, reaching
(50:12):
out with fingers made of crayon wax and broken dreams.
I looked around the workshop for anything I could use
as a weapon, and spotted an emergency toolkit mounted on
the wall. Jeremiah, I called out, grabbing a crowbar from
the kit, Tell me which pillar ten. He pointed to
a pillar near the back of the workshop. That one. Next.
(50:33):
I ran toward it, swinging the crowbar with all my strength.
The impact sent vibrations through my arms, but I felt
the building shudder in response. More cracks spread through the floor,
and several of the smaller forgotten creatures fell back into
the darkness below eleven. Jeremiah struck another pillar while I
(50:53):
moved to the next one. He indicated. The human puppets
suspended from the ceiling were swaying now, their strings tangling
as the building's foundation shifted. Tommy managed to speak through
his mechanical voice. Gas line in the basement. Emergency shut
off is broken. I understood immediately If we could rupture
(51:14):
the main gas line, we could destroy the building completely,
take all of the forgotten with it. Twelve Jeremiah strike
sent a major crack through the center of the workshop.
I brought my crowbar down on the final pillar with
everything I had. Thirteen the building woke up. Every light
in the factory blazed to life at once. The machinery
(51:38):
roared back to operation, conveyor belts moving at impossible speeds,
injection molding machines pumping out doll parts like bullets. The
nineteen fifties bedroom illusion shattered completely, revealing the industrial nightmare beneath.
But the forgotten weren't gone. They were angry. The first
Forgotten let out a roar that sounded like every every
(52:00):
child who'd ever cried for a lost toy, and the
smaller creatures swarmed toward us with renewed fury. The little
girl's pleasant mask finally fell away completely, revealing something made
of porcelain shards and bitter tears. Basement Jeremiah shouted over
the chaos. We triggered the gas line. Get out before
(52:21):
the whole place goes up. We ran through the factory
as reality shifted around us. Industrial machinery and supernatural playground
warring for dominance. Behind us, the Forgotten gave chase, their
forms becoming more abstract and terrifying as they abandoned any
pretense of being children's toys. In the basement, Jeremiah showed
(52:43):
me the main gas valve, its emergency shut off mechanism
corroded beyond repair. When I open this, we'll have maybe
two minutes before the whole building fills with gas. You
see this flare? He pulled an emergency road flare from
his toolkit. Soon as we're clear, light it and throw
it back inside we, I asked. His expression grew grim.
(53:06):
You're getting out of here, son, I'm staying to make
sure they don't follow you. This ends tonight, I wanted
to argue, but the Forgotten were already pouring into the basement,
their other worldly voices calling our names with promises of
eternal friendship. Jeremiah opened the gas valve, and the hiss
of escaping propane filled the air. Go, he shouted, pushing
(53:31):
me toward the stairs. Trucks outside keys in the ignition.
Don't look back. I ran up the basement stairs and
through the factory floor as gas began to fill the building.
Behind me, I could hear Jeremiah holding them off with
his hammer, each strike accompanied by inhuman screams. The human
puppets were calling out warnings, their mechanical voices, creating a
(53:55):
chorus of run, Run, Run. I reached the employee the
entrance just as Jeremiah's voice echoed through the building one
last time for all the children who never got to
grow up. I made it to his truck and started
the engine, just as the factory erupted in flames behind me.
The explosion was so bright it turned night into day,
(54:17):
so loud it shattered windows in Oakwood Estates five miles away.
I watched in the rear view mirror as Warrenberg Doll
Works collapsed in on itself, taking the Forgotten and their
workshop of horrors with it. But I also saw something
else in that fire, the human puppets falling free from
their strings, their painted faces peaceful for the first time
(54:37):
in years as they finally found release. When the fire
department arrived, they found nothing but ash and twisted metal.
The official report blamed a gas leak and faulty equipment.
I gave them a statement about hearing an explosion while
driving past, and nobody questioned why I was on a
back country road at four thirty a m. Jeremiah Koig
(54:58):
was listed as the sole casualty, a maintenance worker who
died trying to prevent the disaster. They gave him a
hero's funeral, and I was the only one who knew
how right they were. I kept his hammer
I was Caleb Thornberry, and three weeks before Halloween, I
was sleeping in my Honda Accord behind a Kansas City
truck stop, wondering how my life had gotten so small.
The car smelled like stale coffee and broken dreams, and
every morning I'd wake up with a crick in my
neck that reminded me how far I'd fallen. That's when
I found the Craigslist ad that would change everything. Night
(00:29):
janitor position eighteen dollars per hour, full benefits, housing provided
Warrenberg Dollworks immediate start. Eighteen dollars an hour was more
than I'd seen in months, and housing meant I could
finally get out of that damn car. I called the
number without thinking twice about why a doll factory needed
a night janitor so desperately, or why they were offering
(00:53):
benefits to someone they hadn't even met yet. The drive
to Warrenberg took me sixty miles southeast of Kansas City,
through rolling Missouri farmland that looked like something from a postcard.
The factory sat at the end of a gravel road,
a converted nineteen forties tobacco warehouse that someone had painted
red brick, but couldn't hide the industrial bones underneath. Those
(01:15):
tall windows looked like dead eyes staring out at the
surrounding cornfields, and something about the place made my skin crawl,
even before I knew what waited inside. They put me
up in Oakwood Estates, a trailer park that housed maintenance
workers and retired farmers, about five miles from the factory.
My trailer was small, but clean, with running water and
(01:37):
electricity that worked most of the time. After sleeping in
my car for two months, it felt like the Ritz Carlton.
I reported for my first shift at eleven thirty PM
on a Tuesday night in October. The air was crisp,
with that bite that promised winter was coming, and the
factory looked even more ominous in the darkness. Motion activated
(01:57):
lights flickered on as I approached the employee entrance, creating
shadows that seemed to move independently of their sources. That's
when I met Jeremiah Koig. He was waiting by the
loading dock, a weathered man in his seventies who looked
like he'd been carved from the same Missouri soil that
surrounded the factory. His hands were gnarled from fifty years
(02:18):
of maintenance work, and his eyes held the kind of
knowledge that comes from seeing things most people wouldn't believe.
You must be thornberry, he said, extending a hand that
felt like shaking hands with a tree root. I'm Jeremiah,
head of maintenance, been here since before you were born.
I shook his hand and tried to smile. Thanks for
(02:39):
the opportunity, mister Koig, I really need this job. His
expression grew serious, and he looked me up and down,
like he was measuring something inside me. This ain't like
other places, son. Eight protocols you follow to the letter,
or this job will be the last thing you ever do.
I've seen twelve men come through here in the past
five years. Seven of them didn't make it to see Christmas.
(03:04):
The way he said it made my blood run cold,
but I needed the work too badly to walk away.
What kind of protocols, the kind that keep you breathing,
he said, pulling out a ring of keys that must
have weighed five pounds. Come on, time for your education.
He led me through the employee entrance into what felt
like stepping into the belly of some massive industrial beast.
(03:25):
The factory floor stretched out before us, and cavern of
shadows and machinery that seemed to go on forever. Conveyor
belts snaked between workstations like mechanical arteries, and thousands of
doll parts hung from overhead hooks, creating a forest of
plastic limbs and painted faces that watched our every move
(03:46):
building was constructed in nineteen forty three, Jeremiah said, as
we walked, processed tobacco until nineteen sixty seven, then sat
empty for fifteen years before Warrenberg bought it. Some buildings
hold on to things you under stand. Memories get into
the walls, into the foundation. This place remembers things that
(04:06):
happened here, and some things that never happened at all.
We walked through the main production floor, our footsteps echoing
in the vast space. The motion activated lights followed us
like spotlights, creating pools of illumination that made the darkness
beyond seem even more absolute. I could smell machine oil
(04:26):
and something else underneath it, something organic and slightly sweet
that I couldn't identify. Your primary responsibility is cleaning and maintenance,
Jeremiah continued. But more important than that, you follow the protocols,
eight of them and they're not suggestions. They're the difference
between going home in the morning and becoming part of
the building's collection. We stopped at the showroom, a glass
(04:50):
enclosed area near the front of the factory where completed
dolls were displayed for buyers. Even in the dim light,
I could see dozens of them arranged on shelves and
in mis furniture setups. Their painted eyes seemed to track
our movement, and I had to remind myself it was
just an optical illusion. Protocol one, Jeremiah said, pointing to
(05:12):
a particular doll in the center display. Every night, first
thing you do is check this showroom. That's Daisy, been
here since the beginning. Sometimes she turns to face the
clown doll on the opposite shelf. When that happens, you
unlock the case, turn her head forward and whisper no
secrets tonight, you understand. I stared at the doll he'd indicated.
(05:36):
She was about two feet tall, with blond curls and
a blue dress, looking innocent enough except for her eyes.
There was something too knowing in those painted blue eyes,
something that made me want to look away. Why would
she turn, I asked, because she remembers things, Jeremiah said, simply,
(05:57):
Protocol two, Section C off limits between two and four.
A m machinery runs on automatic during those hours, but
you don't investigate. You hear sounds from there, you ignore them.
Production happens at night that ain't meant for human eyes.
He led me past rows of workstations toward the back
(06:17):
of the factory. Section C was marked with yellow caution
tape and warning signs, but I could see conveyor belts
and injection molding machines in the darkness beyond Protocol three.
Sometimes you'll find dolls that have moved during your shift.
Document their locations, but don't touch them until morning. They
arrange themselves, sometimes circles mostly, or you'll find them in
(06:40):
the break room sitting around the table. Just mark where
you found them and leave them be. We continued the
tour and I tried to process what he was telling me.
Part of me wanted to laugh, to dismiss this as
an elaborate prank played on new employees. But the serious
way Jeremiah spoke, the weight in his voice, told me
he believe every word. Protocol four is about the children,
(07:04):
he said. As we approached the employee breakroom between three
and three thirty am. You'll hear laughing children's voices clear
as day. When that happens, you come here, start the
coffee maker and wait until it stops brewing. The sounds
will stop with the coffee. The breakroom was standard industrial
fair folding table, plastic chairs, refrigerator, and a commercial coffee
(07:29):
maker that looked like it had seen better decades. But
something about the space felt wrong, like the walls had
absorbed too many conversations and couldn't hold them anymore. That's
four protocols, I said, what about the other four? We'll
get to those if you make it through tonight. Jeremiah said,
(07:50):
right now, you need to focus on learning these first.
Eleven forty five PM is when your shift officially starts.
I'll stay until you get the hang of things, but
by twelve thirty you're on your own until morning. He
handed me a radio, a clipboard, and a set of keys.
Radios for emergencies only, use channel seven clipboards for documenting
(08:13):
anything unusual. Time location description keys will get you into
everywhere you need to go and a few places you don't.
I looked at my watch. Eleven forty two pm three
minutes until I officially started the strangest job of my life.
Any questions, Jeremiah asked. I had about one hundred questions,
(08:35):
but I settled for the most practical one. What exactly
am I cleaning everything? He said, factory floor, break room, bathrooms, offices.
But remember the cleaning is secondary to the protocols. You
follow those eight rules and you might just live to
see another paycheck. At exactly eleven forty five pm, my
(08:57):
shift began. Jeremiah walked me through the basic cleaning routine,
where the supplies were kept, which areas needed daily attention,
how to operate the industrial floor polisher, but I could
tell he was distracted, constantly checking his watch and glancing
toward the darker corners of the factory. I'm going to
leave you to it, he said, at twelve thirty a m. Sharp.
(09:19):
Remember what I told you, follow the protocols and call
if you absolutely have to, but understand some nights help
can't reach you fast enough. Then he was gone, and
I was alone in that vast industrial cavern with nothing
but the motion activated lights and the weight of eight
(09:41):
protocols I didn't fully understand yet. I started with the showroom,
checking on Daisy as instructed. She was facing forward, her
painted smile innocent and sweet. The clown dol on the
opposite shelf grinned back at her with painted red lips
and hollow eyes. Everything seemed normal, but I'm made a
note on my clipboard anyway. Twelve thirty five am, show
(10:04):
room check, Daisy facing forward, no issues. The next hour
passed quietly as I worked my way through the basic
cleaning tasks. I swept the main floor, emptied trash bins,
and wiped down workstations. The factory felt massive around me,
full of shadows and mechanical shapes that looked different every
time the lights shifted. But it was just a building,
(10:27):
I told myself, just machines and plastic and nothing more.
At one fifteen am, I discovered my first displaced dolls.
They were in the south Wing assembly area, arranged in
a perfect circle around a workstation. Seven dolls of various
sizes and styles, all facing inward like they were having
a meeting. My skin crawled as I approached them, but
(10:51):
I remembered Protocol three, document but don't touch. One fifteen am,
South Wing Assembly, seven dolls arranged in circle around station twelve,
no signs of disturbance in surrounding area. Dolls appear to
be two baby dolls, three child dolls, two adult female dolls.
(11:12):
I took a step back and looked around for any
sign of how they might have gotten there. No footprints
in the dust, no indication that human hands had moved them.
They just sat there in their perfect circle, plastic eyes
staring at some invisible center point. The radio crackled to life,
making me jump. Thornberry, you copy, it was Jeremiah's voice.
(11:36):
I fumbled for the radio. Yeah, I'm here, just checking in.
Everything normal so far. I looked at the circle of dolls.
Define normal, you're learning, he said, and I could hear
the grim smile in his voice. Stay alert, The real
fun starts after two inches. At exactly two am, I
(11:58):
heard the machinery in section Sea come to life. The
sound was unlike anything I'd ever heard, not just the
mechanical grinding and whirring I expected, but something musical underneath it,
like a carousel playing a tune that was almost familiar,
but somehow wrong. I found myself walking toward the yellow
caution tape before I caught myself and remembered protocol too.
(12:22):
The temptation to investigate was overwhelming. The sounds from Section
C weren't just mechanical anymore, I could swear. I heard
voices mixed in with the machinery, high and sweet and
calling my name. But Jeremiah's warning echoed in my head.
Production happens at night that ain't meant for human eyes.
(12:43):
I forced myself to walk away and continue my cleaning routine,
but the sounds followed me through the factory. That twisted carousel,
music that made my teeth ache and my skin crawl.
Whatever was happening in Section C, it wasn't normal manufacturing.
At three twelve a m. I heard the children laughing.
(13:04):
The sound started soft, like it was coming from very
far away, then grew clearer and closer. Children's voices, bright
and happy, echoing through the factory like they were playing
hide and seek in the shadows. The laughter was infectious
and terrifying at the same time, innocent joy mixed with
something that didn't belong in this world. I ran to
(13:26):
the break room and started the coffee maker, my hands
shaking as I fumbled with the controls. The machine gurgled
to life, and slowly, gradually, the children's laughter faded until
only the sound of brewing coffee remained. When the coffee
finished brewing, complete silence fell over the factory. Even the
machinery in Section C had gone quiet. I stood in
(13:49):
that break room, breathing hard and wondering what the hell
I'd gotten myself into. That's when I found the wet footprints.
They led from the break room to the show room,
child sized prints that squelched slightly as I followed them.
The prints were fresh water still beating on the factory floor,
but there were no children in the building. There couldn't be.
(14:12):
The trail ended at the showroom, where Daisy still sat
in her display case, facing forward with that painted smile,
but now there were water droplets on the glass, as
if small hands had pressed against it from the inside.
I completed my first shift successfully, but as I walked
out of that factory at eight a m. I knew
(14:33):
I was in over my head. Whatever weighted in Warrenberg
Dollworks wasn't just about cleaning and maintenance. It was about survival,
and I was about to learn just how dangerous the
night shift could be. I stood there staring at those
wet child sized footprints, my heart hammering against my ribs
when I heard the employee entrance door bang open behind me.
(14:56):
Heavy boots crossed the factory floor, and I turned to
see Jeremiah walking toward me with a grim expression that
told me he knew exactly what I'd found. Saw the
lights from the parking lot, he said, stopping beside me
to examine the water droplets on the showroom glass. Figured
it was time to finish your education. Jeremiah, There are
(15:16):
wet footprints, I said, pointing at the obvious trail, child sized.
But there are no children in this building, aren't there.
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the water from
the glass case. You did good with Protocol four. Coffee
maker trick works every time, but it don't make them
go away permanent, like just gives you breathing room. I
(15:38):
watched him clean the glass with methodical precision, like this
was routine maintenance rather than evidence of something impossible. What
happens if I don't follow the protocols? You become part
of the building, he said, simply now come on, four
protocols down, four to go, and the harder ones are
still coming. He led me deeper into the fact past
(16:01):
section C, where the machinery had fallen silent toward an
area I hadn't explored yet. The motion activated lights followed us, reluctantly,
creating pockets of illumination that seemed smaller and weaker than before.
Protocol five, Jeremiah said, as we approached an old freight
elevator I hadn't noticed during my earlier tour. Sometimes this
(16:23):
elevator shows a third floor button. Building only has two floors,
but the elevator remembers when it had three. You see
that button appear, you radio me immediately and wait by
the loading dock. Don't get on, don't press it, don't
even look at it too long. The elevator was ancient,
with brass buttons worn smooth by decades of use. Currently
(16:47):
it showed only one and two, but I could see
a faint outline where a third button might appear, like
a shadow burned into the metal. Why the loading dock,
I asked, Because that's the only exit the building can't
seal off, he said. Protocol six. We're going to the
basement now. Sometimes you'll hear knocking from the storage boxes
(17:11):
down there. Ignore it completely, don't investigate, don't respond, don't
even acknowledge you hear it. Some things are better left alone.
The basement access was through a steel door marked storage,
authorized personnel only. Jeremiah's keys opened it with a rusty click,
and we descended concrete steps into a space that felt
(17:33):
older than the factory above. The air was thick and humid,
carrying scents of mildew and something sweetly organic that made
my stomach turn. The basement stretched out under the entire
factory floor, supported by thick concrete pillars, and filled with
rows of metal storage boxes stacked floor to ceiling. Each
(17:55):
box was labeled with dates going back decades, and some
of the older ones showed rusts stains that looked disturbingly
like dried blood. This is where they keep the discontinued models,
Jeremiah explained as we walked between the rows. Dolls that
didn't sell, prototypes that didn't work out, special orders that
got canceled. But some boxes hold other things. What other things,
(18:19):
Things that used to be people, he said quietly. Protocol seven.
Between four and five a m. You'll hear footsteps on
the factory catwalk above, heavy boots walking back and forth,
like someone's making rounds. When that happens, you keep your
head down and count to one hundred. Don't look up,
don't try to see who it is, because there ain't
(18:39):
nobody up there. We stopped at the far end of
the basement, where a wall held twelve framed photographs arranged
like a memorial. Each photo showed a different person, men
and women of various ages, all wearing factory uniforms. Below
each photo was a name, a date of hire, and
a date of death. Tommy Hutchins, Jeremiah said, pointing to
(19:04):
a photo of a young man with kind eyes and
a nervous smile. Started here three years ago. October fifteenth,
found him locked inside one of these storage boxes. On
November two. Medical examiner said he'd been dead for two weeks,
but we had security footage of him working his shift
the night before. I studied Tommy's photo, trying to understand
(19:26):
what Jeremiah was telling me. How is that possible? Time
works different here some nights, he said, building holds on
to things, like I told you, Sometimes it holds on
to people too, keeps them working long after they should
have stopped. The other photos told similar stories workers who
(19:47):
disappeared during night shifts found dead in impossible circumstances, or
simply vanished without a trace. Most of the death dates
clustered around October and November deduction season. Jeremiah explained, Halloween orders,
Christmas rush. That's when the building gets hungry, when it
needs the most help. And it's almost that time again.
(20:11):
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with
the basement temperature. What do you mean almost that time?
October thirty first is next week, he said, Full production runs,
scheduled overtime shifts, all hands on deck. Companies expecting their
biggest order ever, fifty thousand units for a major retailer.
(20:34):
That's a lot of work for a building that already
has too many memories. He led me back toward the stairs,
but stopped at a storage box marked October twenty twenty
one Special Handling. Unlike the others, this one had fresh
scratches around the lock and what looked like finger marks
pressed into the metal. Protocol eight, Jeremiah said, his voice
(20:55):
dropping to almost a whisper. Little girl in blue dress.
She shows up when things get bad, usually around five
or six am. Always the same, blonde curls, blue dress
with white collar, patent leather shoes. When you see her.
You ask if she's looking for her mother. If she nods,
you take her to the showroom and point to Daisy.
(21:17):
If she shakes her head, he paused, meeting my eyes.
You run fast as you can, don't look back. Get
out of the building and call me. Who is she?
First casualty, he said, nineteen sixty seven, when they shut
down the tobacco operation, Little Sarah Whitman, daughter of the
(21:37):
night watchman, found her in the basement, but by then
it was too late. Building had already claimed her. We
climbed back to the main floor and I checked my
watch three forty seven a m. The factory felt different now,
heavier somehow, like the air itself was pressing down on me.
The shadows seemed deeper, and I could swear I heard
(21:58):
whispers coming from the dark span between the machinery. That's
all eight protocols, Jeremiah said. Follow them exactly, and you'll
probably survive your probationary period. Probably what happens after probation,
we'll worry about that if you make it that far,
he said, heading toward the exit. I'm going home now.
(22:20):
Rest of the shift is yours. I wanted to ask
him to stay to not leave me alone with whatever
haunted this place. But I needed the job too badly.
What if something goes wrong, follow the protocols, he said,
and remember some of the things you'll see ain't really there,
(22:41):
but some of them used to be. Learning the difference
is part of staying alive. Then he was gone again,
and I was alone, with four hours left on my
shift and four new protocols to remember. At four fifteen
a m. I heard the footsteps on the catwalk, heavy boots,
steady and methodical, walking the length of the factory overhead.
(23:04):
I was mopping the floor near the main assembly line
when the sound started, and every instinct told me to
look up to see who was making rounds in a
building that should have been empty. Instead, I kept my
head down and started counting one, two, three. The footsteps
continued back and forth above me, like a security guard
(23:27):
making his patrol. Fifteen sixteen seventeen. I focused on the mop,
on the rhythm of cleaning, on anything except the impossible
sound overhead. Forty three, forty four, forty five. At count
sixty seven, something heavy fell from the catwalk and crashed
(23:48):
into a workstation twenty feet away from me. Metal screamed,
against metal, and I heard what sounded like a man's
voice cry out in pain. But I kept counting, kept
my eyes down, kept mopping eighty eight, eighty nine ninety.
At one hundred, the footsteps stopped. The factory fell silent
(24:08):
except for the hum of the air conditioning and my
own ragged breathing. When I finally looked up, the catwalk
was empty, but the workstation that had been struck was
completely destroyed. Metal twisted like something massive had fallen on it.
I documented the incident, but didn't investigate further. Protocol seven
had been crystal clear about that. At five thirty a m.
(24:32):
I decided to check the basement storage area, telling myself
it was part of my cleaning duties. The truth was
I needed to understand what I was dealing with, even
if the protocols warned against it. The basement felt different
in the pre dawn hours, more alive. Somehow, the air
moved when it shouldn't, and I could swear I heard
voices whispering from between the storage boxes, But it was
(24:55):
the knocking that made my blood freeze. It started soft,
like someone tapping politely on wood. Then it grew louder,
more insistent, coming from multiple boxes at once, Tap tap
tap from the left, bang bang bang from the right,
A rhythmic pounding that sounded almost like morse code. From
somewhere behind me. I remembered Protocol six, ignore completely, never investigate.
(25:22):
But the knocking was so human, so desperate, like people
trapped inside those metal boxes were begging for help. One
particular sound, coming from the box marked October twenty twenty one,
sounded exactly like someone spelling out sos in morse code.
I forced myself to turn around and walk away, but
(25:43):
the knocking followed me up the stairs and continued for
another ten minutes before finally stopping. At exactly six a m.
I saw the little girl in the blue dress. She
was standing at the far end of the main assembly line,
perfectly still among the machinery. Blonde curls, blue dress with
white collar, patent leather shoes that reflected the overhead lights.
(26:04):
She looked solid, real, like any normal child, except for
her eyes. Even from fifty feet away, I could see
that her eyes were completely black. I approached slowly, remembering
Protocol eight word for word. When I was close enough
to speak normally, I asked the question, are you looking
for your mother. The little girl nodded solemnly. Relief flooded
(26:28):
through me as I remembered what to do next. I
took her small, cold hand, it felt like touching marble,
and led her to the showroom. She walked beside me
without making a sound, her patent leather shoes clicking silently
on the factory floor. At the showroom, I pointed to
Daisy in her display case. There she is, I said softly.
(26:50):
The little girl smiled for the first time, a expression
that would have been sweet on any other child, but
looked terrifying on her pale face. She pressed her free
hand against the glass, leaving a small hand print, then
faded away like mist in sunlight. The hand print remained
on the glass, small and perfect, next to the water
(27:11):
droplets I'd found earlier. I completed the rest of my
shift without incident, but by the time eight a m
rolled around, I was exhausted in ways I'd never experienced before.
It wasn't just physical tiredness. It was the bone deep
weariness that comes from having your understanding of reality fundamentally shaken.
As I walked out of Warrenberg Dollwarks that morning, I
(27:34):
should have felt relief. I had survived my first night,
followed all eight protocols successfully, and earned my first decent
paycheck in months. Instead, I felt a growing dread about
returning for my second shift. The factory had tested me
and I'd passed, but I had the unsettling feeling that
the real tests were still coming, and Halloween was only
(27:56):
one week away. Whatever waited for me in that building
I was going to face again in twelve hours. I
spent that day in my trailer at Oakwood Estates, trying
to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I
saw that little girl in the blue dress pressing her
hand against the showroom glass. The handprint she'd left behind
had been real. I'd touched it myself before leaving the factory.
(28:18):
Whatever was happening at Warrenberg Doll Works wasn't just in
my head. By six pm, I knew sleep wasn't coming.
I sat at my kitchen table, drinking instant coffee and
staring at the factory paycheck that represented more money than
I'd seen in months, eighteen dollars an hour, benefits, and housing.
All I had to do was survive whatever haunted that
(28:40):
building long enough to collect it. When I arrived for
my second shift at eleven thirty pm on October thirty. First,
I immediately knew something was different. The parking lot was
fuller than it had been the night before, with several
cars I didn't recognize. More concerning were the additional lights
blazing in the factory windows and the sound of machinery
(29:02):
running at full capacity. Jeremiah met me at the employee entrance,
but this time he wasn't alone. A woman in her
forties with graying hair and calloused hands stood beside him,
wearing the same factory uniform i'd been issued. This is
Ava Zimmerman, Jeremiah said, by way of introduction, runs the
(29:22):
swing shift crew. They'll be working until two am tonight.
Ava looked me up and down with the critical eye
of someone who'd seen too many new hires come and go.
You're the one who made it through his first night,
She said, good for you. Most don't Corporate wants a
full production run through the holiday weekend, Jeremiah explained, handing
(29:45):
me a second radio, fifty thousand units for the Christmas rush,
plus special Halloween orders that came in last minute. Channel
three for swing shift coordination, Channel seven for emergencies, like before.
I clipped both radios to ti my belt, feeling their
weight like anchors. What kind of special orders custom dolls?
(30:07):
Ava said grimly, Collectors who want replicas of specific children
always comes in around Halloween, always makes the building restless.
Jeremiah checked his watch. Halloween night changes things. Building remembers
what it used to be, gets confused about which year
it is. Protocols still apply, but be ready for variations.
(30:30):
Things that shouldn't happen might happen anyway. They escorted me inside,
where I could see Ava's swingshift crew working at various
stations throughout the factory floor. The additional activity should have
made the place feel more normal, more human. Instead, it
felt like we were intruders in something else's territory. My
(30:50):
first stop was the showroom for the mandatory Protocol one check,
but what I found there made my blood run cold.
Daisy wasn't in her display case. She was on the
floor facing the clown doll, whose own position had been altered.
Both dolls were arranged as if they were having a conversation.
Their painted eyes locked on each other with an intensity
(31:10):
that seemed impossible for inanimate objects. I unlocked the case
with shaking hands and reached for Daisy, But the moment
I touched her, I heard a whisper, clear as day
too late. The voice was childlike but wrong, like an
adult mimicking a child's speech. I spun around, looking for
the source, but saw only empty factory floor and distant
(31:32):
swingshift workers who couldn't have been close enough to whisper
in my ear. I turned Daisy's head forward and whispered
the prescribed words, no secrets tonight. But even as I
spoke them, I had the unsettling feeling that the protocols
weren't going to be enough tonight. Eleven forty seven pm,
showroom anomaly. Daisy and clown doll repositioned whispered response. During adjustment,
(31:57):
I wrote on my clipboard, my handwriting shit shier than
I wanted to admit. The next hour passed with unusual activity.
Throughout the factory, ava's crew worked efficiently, but I noticed
they stayed in groups, never venturing alone into the darker
sections of the building. They'd acknowledged me with nods when
our paths crossed, but nobody seemed inclined to make conversation.
(32:20):
At twelve forty five am, I discovered something that shouldn't
have existed. In the southeast corner of the factory, near
one of the older assembly stations, three dolls had arranged
themselves around a miniature tea set. The tiny cups and
saucers were positioned perfectly, as if interrupted mid party. But
one of the dolls, a brunette in a yellow dress,
(32:42):
had soaking wet hair that dripped steadily onto the factory floor.
The water was warm when I knelt to examine it,
and it smelled like swimming pool chlorine mixed with something
organic I couldn't identify. According to Protocol three, I should
document but not touch, so I made my notes and
backed away, But the image stayed with me. Three dolls
(33:03):
having tea, one of them dripping wet, as if she'd
just been pulled from water. Twelve forty five a m.
Southeast station, Three dolls arranged around tea set. Brunette doll
has wet hair, warm water with chemical smell. I documented,
trying to keep my handwriting steady. At one thirty a m.
The sounds from Section CE changed completely. Instead of the
(33:27):
usual mechanical grinding i'd heard the night before, music box
melodies mixed with wind chimes drifted from the forbidden area.
The tune was familiar, Ring around the Rosy, played at
half speed with harmonics that made my teeth ache. Underlying
the music were other sounds, children's voices singing along, the
squeak of swings, the bounce of balls against pavement. It
(33:51):
sounded like a playground, not a manufacturing area. Ava's voice
crackled over Channel three night janitor U hearing this, I
keyed the radio. Yeah, I hear it. Stay clear of
Section C tonight. Whatever's running in there at ain't r machinery.
Through the yellow caution tape, I could see lights moving
(34:13):
in patterns that defied the factory's electrical layout. Not the
steady glow of work lights, but something that pulsed and
swirled like colored spotlights at a carnival. The air around
Section C felt different, too, warmer and humid, carrying sense
that reminded me of cotton candy and birthday cake. At
(34:33):
two am, sharp, Ava's swingshift crew packed up and left.
I watched their cars disappear down the gravel road, leaving
me alone with whatever was transforming the factory around me.
That's when the children started calling my name. KLB. The
voice was high and sweet, echoing from the far end
of the factory. KLB, come play with us. More voices
(34:59):
joined in a chorus of children, calling my name with
increasing urgency. Caleb, we've been waiting for you, Come play.
The realization hit me like ice water. They knew who
I was. These weren't random supernatural phenomena. Whatever haunted this
place had been studying me, learning about me, preparing for
(35:20):
this moment. Caleb, don't be scared. We just want to play.
I tried to ignore the voices and continue my cleaning routine,
but they followed me through the factory, always coming from
whatever direction I wasn't facing. When I turned to look,
I'd catch glimpses of movement in the shadows, small figures
(35:41):
darting between machinery, the flash of colorful clothing, hands waving
from impossibly high perches. At two fifteen a m. The
voices became more insistent. Please, Caleb, we're so lonely. Come
play Hide and seek. We know games you've never played. Me.
Four the birthday party is starting soon. You can't miss it.
(36:05):
The birthday party reference made my skin crawl. The sense
i'd noticed earlier cake and cotton candy were growing stronger,
as if an invisible celebration was taking place all around me.
But birthday parties were supposed to be joyful, and there
was nothing joyful about the hungry desperation I heard in
those children's voices. At three a m. I broke protocol.
(36:30):
The voices had been calling my name for forty five
minutes straight, and my nerves were shredded. When I heard
the familiar sound of children's laughter that should have triggered
Protocol four. I ran to the break room and started
the coffee maker without checking the time. It was the
wrong time. Protocol four specified three a m to three
thirty a m, and it was exactly three a m.
(36:52):
But the supernatural pressure in the building felt like a
weight on my chest, and I needed the comfort of
following familiar procedures. The coffee maker gurgled to life, but
this time the children's laughter didn't stop. Instead, it grew louder,
more excited, as if my deviation from the protocol had
given them permission to break their own rules. He's learning,
(37:13):
he's learning to play. Almost time, Almost time for the
birthday party. The sense of cake and cotton candy became overwhelming,
sickeningly sweet. In the stale factory air, I could swear
I heard party horns in the distance, and the sound
of children singing Happy Birthday in voices that were almost
(37:33):
but not quite human. At three forty five a m.
She appeared. The little girl in the blue dress stood
at the entrance to the break room. But this time
something was different. She looked exactly like Daisy from the
showroom display, the same blonde curls, the same blue dress
with white collar, the same patent leather shoes, but her
(37:55):
eyes were alive in a way Daisy's painted eyes could
never be. Are you looking for your mother? I asked,
following Protocol eight, exactly as I had the night before.
The little girl's expression changed. Instead of the solemn nod
I expected, she shook her head slowly from side to side.
(38:15):
According to Protocol eight, this was when I should run
fast as I could, don't look back, get out of
the building. But something in her face stopped me. She
looked so small, so lost, and the fear in her
living eyes seemed genuine. What are you looking for? I asked,
abandoning the protocol entirely. She smiled then, an expression that
(38:39):
was both innocent and ancient. She held out her small
hand to me, palm up waiting. I knew I should run.
Every survival instinct screamed at me to get out of
that building. But I also knew that running wouldn't solve anything.
Whatever was happening at Warrenberg Doll Works was building towards
something bigger, and Alloween night was just the beginning. I
(39:02):
took her hand. The moment our skin touched, the factory
began to change around us. The industrial lighting dimmed and warmed,
taking on the soft glow of bedroom lamps. The concrete
floor beneath my feet became hardwood, and I could hear
the sounds of children playing, real children, happy and alive
somewhere just out of sight. The walls shifted and flowed
(39:25):
like liquid machinery, dissolving into furniture that belonged in a
child's play room. Conveyor belts became toy train tracks, injection
molding machines transformed into elaborate dollhouses, and the catwalk overhead
became a canopy of colorful streamers and balloons. Through it all,
the little girl held my hand and led me deeper
(39:46):
into what the factory was becoming behind us. I could
hear more children following their footsteps reel now, their laughter
warm and genuine instead of the hollow echo it had
been before. Welcome to the the birthday party, Caleb, the
little girl said, in a voice like silver bells. We've
been waiting so long for someone who would stay and play.
(40:09):
I looked around at the transformed factory, at the impossible
playground that had replaced the industrial nightmare i'd been working in.
Somewhere in the distance, I could hear Happy Birthday being
sung by dozens of children's voices, and I realized that
whatever was happening here, I was no longer just a
witness to it. I had become part of it. As
(40:31):
we walked deeper into the transformed space, past doll houses
that breathed in toy trains that whispered secrets, I understood
that my second night at Warrenburg Doll Works was going
to be very different from my first. The protocols had
prepared me to survive the building's haunting, but they hadn't
prepared me for what would happen if I chose to
(40:52):
accept its invitation instead. The little girl's hand felt warm
and real in mine, as she led me through what
the factory had become. The industrial nightmare i'd been working
in for two nights had transformed into something that belonged
in a child's bedroom from the nineteen fifties. Wall paper
(41:12):
with cheerful circus animals, hardwood floors covered with braided rugs,
and furniture scaled for small bodies. But it wasn't the
transformation itself that made my breath catch in my throat.
It was seeing the dolls. Every doll from the showroom
was moving freely through the space, their painted faces animated
(41:33):
with personalities I could never have imagined. Daisy walked beside
a baby doll who babbled contentedly in her arms. The
clown doll juggled invisible balls while humming a tune. I
almost recognized. A bride doll swept across the floor in
an eternal waltz with a groom whose paint had worn
away decades ago. They're beautiful, aren't they? The little girl said,
(41:59):
her voice, caring the same silver bell quality i'd heard before.
They've been waiting so long to play properly. I watched
a cowboy doll tip his hat to a ballerina who
curtsied in return, and I realized these weren't just animated objects.
They moved with purpose, with memory, with something that resembled
genuine emotion. What are they, I asked the forgotten she said,
(42:24):
simply imaginary friends who were abandoned, toys that were thrown away,
dolls that were left behind when children grew up. They
came here because it was the only place that remembered
how to love them. We walked deeper into the transformed space,
past dollhouses that breathed softly and toy trains that whispered
secrets to each other as they rolled along impossible tracks
(42:47):
that defied gravity. The birthday party sounds i'd been hearing
grew clearer, children singing party horns, blowing, the rustle of
gift wrapping being torn away. But where are the children,
I asked. The little girl's expression grew sad, gone grown up,
moved away, forgot us. She squeezed my hand tighter. That's
(43:11):
why we need new friends. Friends who won't forget, who
won't grow up, who won't leave. That's when I saw
section C. The yellow caution tape had dissolved away, revealing
an area that no longer looked like a manufacturing floor. Instead,
it had become a workshop, but not for making dolls.
(43:33):
This was a workshop for making friends that would never leave.
Surgical tables lined the space, each one equipped with restraints
and surrounded by tools that had been miniaturized for delicate work,
tiny scalpels, needle thin sutures, paint brushes so fine they
could detail individual eyelashes. Above each table hung a collection
(43:53):
of human sized marionette strings, and suspended from those strings,
painted and dressed like oversize dolls, were the former employees
I'd seen in the memorial photos. They hung motionless until
I entered the workshop. Then their heads turned toward me
in perfect unison. Their faces had been painted with rosy
cheeks and bright red lips, their eyes enlarged with careful
(44:16):
brushwork to look more doll like, But underneath the paint,
I could see their real eyes, very much alive and
filled with a terror that had been trapped for years. Tommy,
I whispered, recognizing the young man from the photograph. The
figure suspended nearest to me nodded slowly, the movement accompanied
(44:36):
by the squeak of marionette joints when he opened his
mouth to speak. His voice came out in the mechanical
cadence of a talking doll. Still learning to dance, he said,
his painted smile never changing even as tears rolled down
his cheeks. Been practicing for three years. Almost got it right.
(44:58):
I looked around the workshop in horror, counting at least
a dozen human puppets suspended from the ceiling. Some were
employees I'd seen in the memorial photos. Others were strangers
who must have wandered into the factory over the decades.
All of them had been converted into perfect little friends
who would never break, never age, never leave. Isn't it wonderful?
(45:20):
The little girl asked, watching my reaction with eager anticipation.
We can all be together forever. No one has to
be lonely anymore. That's when I heard the familiar sound
of heavy boots on the factory floor behind us. I
turned to see Jeremiah walking through the transformed space, completely
unaffected by the supernatural changes around him. In his hands,
(45:44):
he carried a balpen hammer that looked ordinary except for
the symbols carved into its handle. Caleb, he called out,
his voice, cutting through the birthday party atmosphere like a
knife step away from her now. The little girl's grip
on my hand tightened painfully. Don't listen to him, she said,
(46:07):
her silver bell voice taking on a desperate edge. He
wants to hurt us, he wants to send us back
to the darkness. Jeremiah stopped at the edge of the workshop,
raising his hammer. This is Protocol nine, boy, the one
I hoped you'd never need to learn. Thirteen strikes on
the load bearing pillars. In sequence, it'll wake the building,
(46:29):
disrupt the influence that's got hold of you. Wake the building,
I asked, still processing what I was seeing. Building's been
sleeping for decades, dreaming these children's dreams. But the dreams
have gone sour, turned into nightmares that trap people instead
of comforting them. He pointed the hammer at the nearest
(46:50):
concrete pillar. Foundation remembers what it was built on. Strike
it right, and it'll remember. It's supposed to hold up
a factory, not a place. The little girl released my
hand and stepped back, her expression shifting from sweetness to
something much older and more dangerous. You can't take him
(47:11):
away from us. We need him. You need to let
these people go, Jeremiah said firmly. Tommy and the others.
They don't belong to you. Around us, the animated dolls
had stopped their play and were gathering in a circle.
Their painted faces no longer looked cheerful. They looked hungry, desperate,
(47:32):
like children who'd been denied a promised treat. Jeremiah raised
his hammer and struck the first pillar. The sound rang
out like a bell, and immediately I felt something shift
in the air around us. The nineteen fifties bedroom esthetic
flickered like a television with poor reception, and for a
moment I could see the industrial machinery underneath one He counted,
(47:55):
moving to the second pillar, the little girl screamed that
was no longer silver bells, but broken glass and grinding metal.
The dolls around us began to move with jerky, aggressive motions,
their painted smiles stretching into grimaces. Jeremiah struck the second pillar.
Two cracks appeared in the hardwood floor, revealing the concrete underneath.
(48:21):
The wallpaper began to peel away in long strips, exposing
the red brick walls of the original factory. But something
else was happening too. The cracks were spreading deeper than
they should, revealing darkness. Beneath the foundation that seemed to
go on forever. Three another strike, another reality shift. That's
(48:43):
when I saw them climbing up through the cracks, the
forgotten in their original forms, Not the animated dolls or
the sweet little girl, but the things they'd been before
they learned to wear pleasant faces, stick figure creatures made
of shadow and sharp angles, geometric nightmares that hurt to
look at directly, and things that existed in too many
(49:05):
dimensions for my eyes to properly process. Four five six.
Jeremiah worked methodically, but I could see the strain on
his face as more creatures emerged from the darkness below.
The largest of them pulled itself up through a crack
near Section C, A massive, constantly shifting thing that might
(49:27):
have been the first imaginary friend ever abandoned, grown huge
and twisted from centuries of loneliness. It had no fixed shape,
flowing between the form of a child's drawing and something
that belonged in cosmic horror. The first forgotten, the little
girl said, her voice now layered with harmonics that made
(49:49):
my teeth ache. It's been waiting so long to have
friends who won't leave. Seven eight nine, Jeremiah was sweating now,
his hammer strikes becoming more desperate. As the creatures pressed closer,
I realized he wasn't going to make it to thirteen
strikes on his own. The Forgotten were surrounding him, reaching
(50:12):
out with fingers made of crayon wax and broken dreams.
I looked around the workshop for anything I could use
as a weapon, and spotted an emergency toolkit mounted on
the wall. Jeremiah, I called out, grabbing a crowbar from
the kit, Tell me which pillar ten. He pointed to
a pillar near the back of the workshop. That one. Next.
(50:33):
I ran toward it, swinging the crowbar with all my strength.
The impact sent vibrations through my arms, but I felt
the building shudder in response. More cracks spread through the floor,
and several of the smaller forgotten creatures fell back into
the darkness below eleven. Jeremiah struck another pillar while I
(50:53):
moved to the next one. He indicated. The human puppets
suspended from the ceiling were swaying now, their strings tangling
as the building's foundation shifted. Tommy managed to speak through
his mechanical voice. Gas line in the basement. Emergency shut
off is broken. I understood immediately If we could rupture
(51:14):
the main gas line, we could destroy the building completely,
take all of the forgotten with it. Twelve Jeremiah strike
sent a major crack through the center of the workshop.
I brought my crowbar down on the final pillar with
everything I had. Thirteen the building woke up. Every light
in the factory blazed to life at once. The machinery
(51:38):
roared back to operation, conveyor belts moving at impossible speeds,
injection molding machines pumping out doll parts like bullets. The
nineteen fifties bedroom illusion shattered completely, revealing the industrial nightmare beneath.
But the forgotten weren't gone. They were angry. The first
Forgotten let out a roar that sounded like every every
(52:00):
child who'd ever cried for a lost toy, and the
smaller creatures swarmed toward us with renewed fury. The little
girl's pleasant mask finally fell away completely, revealing something made
of porcelain shards and bitter tears. Basement Jeremiah shouted over
the chaos. We triggered the gas line. Get out before
(52:21):
the whole place goes up. We ran through the factory
as reality shifted around us. Industrial machinery and supernatural playground
warring for dominance. Behind us, the Forgotten gave chase, their
forms becoming more abstract and terrifying as they abandoned any
pretense of being children's toys. In the basement, Jeremiah showed
(52:43):
me the main gas valve, its emergency shut off mechanism
corroded beyond repair. When I open this, we'll have maybe
two minutes before the whole building fills with gas. You
see this flare? He pulled an emergency road flare from
his toolkit. Soon as we're clear, light it and throw
it back inside we, I asked. His expression grew grim.
(53:06):
You're getting out of here, son, I'm staying to make
sure they don't follow you. This ends tonight, I wanted
to argue, but the Forgotten were already pouring into the basement,
their other worldly voices calling our names with promises of
eternal friendship. Jeremiah opened the gas valve, and the hiss
of escaping propane filled the air. Go, he shouted, pushing
(53:31):
me toward the stairs. Trucks outside keys in the ignition.
Don't look back. I ran up the basement stairs and
through the factory floor as gas began to fill the building.
Behind me, I could hear Jeremiah holding them off with
his hammer, each strike accompanied by inhuman screams. The human
puppets were calling out warnings, their mechanical voices, creating a
(53:55):
chorus of run, Run, Run. I reached the employee the
entrance just as Jeremiah's voice echoed through the building one
last time for all the children who never got to
grow up. I made it to his truck and started
the engine, just as the factory erupted in flames behind me.
The explosion was so bright it turned night into day,
(54:17):
so loud it shattered windows in Oakwood Estates five miles away.
I watched in the rear view mirror as Warrenberg Doll
Works collapsed in on itself, taking the Forgotten and their
workshop of horrors with it. But I also saw something
else in that fire, the human puppets falling free from
their strings, their painted faces peaceful for the first time
(54:37):
in years as they finally found release. When the fire
department arrived, they found nothing but ash and twisted metal.
The official report blamed a gas leak and faulty equipment.
I gave them a statement about hearing an explosion while
driving past, and nobody questioned why I was on a
back country road at four thirty a m. Jeremiah Koig
(54:58):
was listed as the sole casualty, a maintenance worker who
died trying to prevent the disaster. They gave him a
hero's funeral, and I was the only one who knew
how right they were. I kept his hammer
Popular Podcasts
Stuff You Should Know
If you've ever wanted to know about champagne, satanism, the Stonewall Uprising, chaos theory, LSD, El Nino, true crime and Rosa Parks, then look no further. Josh and Chuck have you covered.
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Special Summer Offer: Exclusively on Apple Podcasts, try our Dateline Premium subscription completely free for one month! With Dateline Premium, you get every episode ad-free plus exclusive bonus content.
On Purpose with Jay Shetty
I’m Jay Shetty host of On Purpose the worlds #1 Mental Health podcast and I’m so grateful you found us. I started this podcast 5 years ago to invite you into conversations and workshops that are designed to help make you happier, healthier and more healed. I believe that when you (yes you) feel seen, heard and understood you’re able to deal with relationship struggles, work challenges and life’s ups and downs with more ease and grace. I interview experts, celebrities, thought leaders and athletes so that we can grow our mindset, build better habits and uncover a side of them we’ve never seen before. New episodes every Monday and Friday. Your support means the world to me and I don’t take it for granted — click the follow button and leave a review to help us spread the love with On Purpose. I can’t wait for you to listen to your first or 500th episode!