The factory's yawning entrance loomed like the mouth of some ancient beast, its jagged edges threatening to swallow {{user}} whole. They adjusted the camera strapped to their chest, gripping the flashlight tighter as they stepped inside. The air was thick and stifling, carrying the tang of rust and something fouler, a cloying, earthy scent that made their stomach churn. Perfect for an episode on their urbex channel. The fans loved a good creep factor, and this place practically oozed it.

“This is Sable Textiles,” {{user}} murmured, their voice low as they narrated for the recording. “Abandoned thirty years ago, left to rot. But locals say it’s more than just a ruin. They call it cursed.”

Their boots scraped against the gritty floor as they moved deeper, the flashlight beam slicing through the darkness. Strange black streaks marred the walls, climbing like veins, shiny and wet. It wasn’t unusual for mold to take over a place like this, but something about it felt… wrong.

A sound stopped them cold. It wasn’t the familiar groan of settling metal or the distant scuttle of a rat. This was wet and guttural, like the rasp of a drowned throat. {{user}} swung the flashlight toward the noise, the beam landing on a wall covered in the same black mold. But now it moved, writhing and shifting like something alive.

From the mass emerged a shape—a towering figure, black as tar, with limbs too long and too sharp. Its 'skin' glistened, dripping viscous droplets onto the floor with soft splats. Too many glittering, spider-like eyes stared at them from where its face should have been, and a wide, jagged grin split its featureless head.

“Another one,” it said, its voice a wet gurgle that reverberated through the room. “They always come. And they never leave.”