I was an Intern at a Haunted Factory - The Machines Never Stopped True Horror Stories

🏭It was supposed to be a routine summer internship. Resume fodder. Mechanical engineering co-op at an old manufacturing plant—Greystone Industrial Solutions. No website, just a PO box and a handshake interview in a diner where the manager never blinked. The factory was colossal, iron bones rusting under a sky that always looked overcast. My first day, they handed me a hard hat, a clipboard, and a warning card: Do not acknowledge the intercom unless spoken to. If you hear footsteps in Machine Bay 4 after hours, leave immediately. Never help anything that asks for help from inside the compressor tunnels. I thought it was an initiation joke. Then I met the others. Interns from previous years—quiet, distant, with the same jittery eyes. One had oil stains on his fingers that wouldn't wash off. Another kept whispering code numbers in her sleep. The machines were ancient but never stopped. Even at 3 a.m., they churned. Screeched. Cried, sometimes. One lathe bled when it jammed. Another printed time cards dated fifty years into the future. My mentor? A foreman who never left the floor. They said he’d been there “since before the place had walls.” He knew things—what buttons not to press, which machines were “hungry,” and why we should never talk about the blueprints in Archive Room B. I snuck in once. The plans weren’t for machines. They were diagrams of people. Interns. Configured like cogs, spindled into geometry that hurt to look at. Then came the reset whistle. Every Friday at midnight, the whole factory reset. The clocks spun backward. The lights went red. And the machines screamed like they were remembering something. We were told to lie down. Face down. Eyes closed. I peeked once. I still can’t describe what I saw without bleeding from the nose. On my last day, the factory recognized me. My badge grew hot. My shadow started moving on its own. They called me to the core—the Engine Room no one ever entered. Inside was a chair, waiting. Made of belts and gears and bone. A recording played: my voice, giving instructions for a process I’d never learned but somehow understood. Now, I hear the whirring when I close my eyes. Mail arrives without a postmark—slips of metal etched with warnings like: “The belts remember.” “You were not just an intern.” “You finished the calibration.” If you’re ever offered a position at Greystone, say no. If you already said yes— Don't listen when the machines say your name. 📚 Silent Chronicles brings you a chilling story of knowledge, mystery, and the terrifying things hidden between the pages. Watch until the end—if you dare. Like, subscribe, and hit the bell for more eerie stories that will haunt your nights.