The Haunted Factory.
The old factory stands derelict and deserted in the old industrial area, almost on the edge where it borders with the nearby residential area. Its corrugated sink roof is half stripped, and only a few large and rusted sheets remain. The windows are all long since gone or broken, and the wind whistles sad tunes through the empty spaces and the glass fragments that still remain in them. The old red-brick walls stand as firm as they always did.
The old place stands empty and deserted now, but back in the old days it was a hub of activity. The whole industrial area flourished back in those days. The orders came into the furniture factory with hasty demand, and the management battled to keep up with producing the supply. Sofas and dining tables, reclining chairs and coffee tables, book-shelves and kitchen cupboards, all manner of wooden and stuffed furniture were produced inside and travelled out through the doors, and into the awaiting delivery vans.
The factory progressed and made its share-holders and investors a lot of money over the years. Furniture was manufactured, and it was hard to keep supply up with the demand. Everything went smoothly and the enterprise flourished, until the day that the tragic incident occurred with Mister Jones and the saw-mill.
After his death, the business slowly, and inexplicably, started to deteriorate. There was of course the series of nation-wide strikes, that also affected this particular business, but this was not all. A sharp decline in the market thereafter, and cheaper Asian imports, were the final nail in their coffin. When the international financial crisis set in shortly thereafter, they were doomed beyond salvation.
The firm went insolvent, and the factory finally closed after many years in business.
Now the place stands like an empty shell in the old industrial area. Many more years have passed, and now the building stands like a ghostly-skeleton; red-bricks, holes and decay. The wind whispers and whistles through every hollow and crack, as it slithers about in search of nothing and of mischief. It smells an empty recess in a broken wall, and then slides away disinterested, and in search of more.
The place stands alone and empty, and is seldom frequented, even by little boys and vagrants. For it said by the people in the nearby houses that sometimes in the dead of night, one can hear the terrible metal screeching of a broken saw-mill, followed by the most horrific death-screams echoing through the darkness there-after…