The Factory of Death: Original Short Stories

By Craig Harrigan

The Willows are a wealthy entrepreneurial family that have lived in Columbia, Maryland, for generations, having made a fortune out of manufacturing shoes. Its current patriarch, Owen, oversees the shoe making factory, Willow & Sons, which is blooming with sales. However, all's not sugary with the success of his factory. Content with caring for his family, its legacy, and the factory, Owen bludgeons his employees towards achieving his extreme goals of productivity, by being exploitative and abusive. Fed up with the antics of the 'feisty mouse' (as he is unpleasantly addressed by his employees), his employees, wishing him misfortune commensurate with theirs, pay a visit to a witch. And that's where things take a sudden twist in the lives of the Willows.

At first, it is the home employee in charge of the control room, Julio, who gets into an accident that leaves him dead in the pool. Then, it is a strange visitor, who always brings death along. Being too careful is not enough for the Willows, especially as simple accidents begin to grow lethal.

At the end of the day, Owen's devotion to upholding family legacy may not be enough to keep this new horror at bay. The Willows are a wealthy entrepreneurial family that have lived in Columbia, Maryland, for generations, having made a fortune out of manufacturing shoes. Its current patriarch, Owen, oversees the shoe making factory, Willow & Sons, which is blooming with sales. However, all's not sugary with the success of his factory. Content with caring for his family, its legacy, and the factory, Owen bludgeons his employees towards achieving his extreme goals of productivity, by being exploitative and abusive. Fed up with the antics of the 'feisty mouse' (as he is unpleasantly addressed by his employees), his employees, wishing him misfortune commensurate with theirs, pay a visit to a witch. And that's where things take a sudden twist in the lives of the Willows.

At first, it is the home employee in charge of the control room, Julio, who gets into an accident that leaves him dead in the pool. Then, it is a strange visitor, who always brings death along. Being too careful is not enough for the Willows, especially as simple accidents begin to grow lethal.

At the end of the day, Owen's devotion to upholding family legacy may not be enough to keep this new horror at bay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Youcanprint
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9791220321662

Book preview

15

Possessed Master

1

The Willows had lived in Columbia, for as long as anyone could remember. They were not the founders of the place, but generations and generations of them had through the service of shoe-making watched the place grow into a city. And with time, what was an averagely successful family thing, became Willow & Sons, the first shoe making industry in the city.

Like every family business, they took care to keep the money within the family, and so far, fate had smiled on them. There was always a child, or children, to pass the baton to.

Its current owner, and patriarch, Owen, took the diminutive stature of his mother, and the loudmouth of his father, earning him the moniker, ‘feisty mouse’ in the hearts, and covert gatherings of his employees.

Today, he was in a pale brown shirt, tucked into dark brown trousers that were held in place by suspenders. One of his hands were deep into his pocket, and the other held a Belicoso to his mouth. He stood at the gangway, watching his precious machines work, while his employees moved around operating the machines and helping them to bring out shoes.

Hey, Maurice. The fuck are you doing? he yelled.

The male employees cast confused glances at themselves, at a loss for who in particular the boss was addressing. To Owen, every male under his employ was either a Maurice, or a Jack. The females were all Janes.

Saves a lot of the fucking time I’d waste stuffing names into my brain. He’d replied an inquisitive friend once. I know the machines, though.

When the friend had given him an incredulous look he had laughed, and said:

What? They make me more money.

Today, Owen must have been touched by a benevolent spirit, and stayed up there on the gangway. Usually, he walked on the ground, through the shoe manufacturing units, observing up close, and hurling invectives.

What’re you doing mate? he yelled again.

This time his arm flew out his pocket, and pointed at someone among the units.

You. Yes, you Maurice. That’s ten percent off your salary, period. If you fuckers don’t know how to do a good job, I can easily call up replacements.

Characteristically, whenever Owen visited the shoe factory -- which was more often than his workers prayed for – he’d leave at 6.pm, which is two hours after the normal factory time for closure. Once when one of them had whined to him, that the closure time was actually 4.pm and not 6.pm, Owen had dubbed him a fat-faced bastard.

I’m the owner of the company. He’d said. "I make the rules, I can also remake them. Now you get me more shoes by 6.pm, or none of you are getting paid. I pay you to manufacture shoes, and not to observe time of closure.

Always, before leaving, he’d ensure that the machines have been put to a stop.

He drove off in his black BMW 328i, leaving a disgruntled staff in his taillights.

That one sure is a machine pervert. One of the workers said.

He was a tall man with a full brown moustache and a crew cut.

You don’t say, Howard. One of his colleagues said to him. I’d pinky swear that he’d rather fuck one of these machines than fuck a human being. I wonder how he was able to net such a beautiful wife.

Have you seen the rest of his family? Janet, a petite blonde said.

By now, the whole company of workers had come together, in a social gathering of sorts.

We work for him, help him operate his bloody machines, fetch him the money he has, and all he does is pelt us with insults all day. Howard said.

It seemed he held a higher position than the others, or he was just the most charismatic, because he seemed to command the better attention.

The puny sonuvabitch didn’t pay me a full salary last month, because he found some mistake at the cutting and marking. And he makes us work extra hours for nothing. It’s like we’re pouring our essence to make him rise to the clouds.

He’s exploitative alright. I just don’t know how much of it I can take anymore. Cruz, said. He was a Latino. With the amount of wrinkles on his face, and the streaks of gray on his hair, he was easily the oldest. Probably, in his fifties.

He’s a god. Someone said from among the crowd of workers.