The Shape of Rust: Chapter 4

Lights & Shadows

This is a multi-part story, with new chapters released every two weeks. Follow along to uncover the mystery as it unfolds.

Make sure to have read the previous chapters.

Morning broke over Kayro with a deceptive calm, the air still and cool. The first rays of sunlight slanted across the rolling hills, brushing the edges of the town with warmth. Birds chirped lazily, their songs punctuated by the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a faint breeze. The peace felt too perfect, like the town was holding its breath.

I found myself at the diner, Ben’s notebook open on the counter, staring at the same half-empty cup of coffee I’d been nursing for an hour. The night before had been restless. Every creak of the house, every groan of wind outside had set my nerves on edge. Something was wrong in Kayro. I could feel it in my bones.

“Morning,” came a voice, soft but firm.

I looked up to see Ruth and Carl seated in the corner booth. Their usual presence in Suzie’s Diner had a comforting rhythm to it, like clockwork. But today, even they looked subdued.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked, sliding the notebook shut.

“We were just talking about the stranger, you know.”

Carl leaned in, his wiry frame casting a shadow against the morning light streaming through the window. “Heard he’s been asking questions,” he said. His tone wasn’t accusatory, but there was an edge to it.

“People seem to have plenty to say about that windmill.”

Ruth let out a dry laugh, barely more than a puff of air, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Which version do you want?” she asked, her voice low and measured. “The one folks tell in whispers, or the one buried under fifty years of silence?”

I didn’t get the chance to answer. The bell above the door jingled softly, and we both turned to see Ben walking in. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes scanning the room before landing on us. Ruth gave a quick wave, already reaching for a clean cup behind the counter. “Grab a seat,” she said, setting the cup down in front of him as he slid onto the stool. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Carl leaned backwards, resting his hands on the table. “You ever hear about James Decker?”

I nodded. “A little. People keep mentioning his name. What happened?”

“It was a hot summer,” Carl said, his voice low. “Sweltering. James was a troubled man. Jealous, mostly. Couldn’t stand his girl, Leah, even looking at another man. And Victor Clark? Oh, he hated that guy. Leah had a child with him, you see. That kind of history doesn’t sit well with some men.”

Ruth’s eyes darkened. “James wasn’t right in the head. Always had a temper, but that summer… something snapped. Started threatening Victor, talking about settling scores.”

Carl took over. “One night, he took two boys with him up to the windmill — his cousin Johnny Ray and a local kid, Jason Greene. No one really knows what happened next, but Victor and his buddy Tom Harris showed up. That’s when things got ugly.”

The way they described it sent chills down my spine. The image of James, fuming under the windmill’s shadow, venting his rage to the two younger men. The arrival of Victor’s car, its headlights cutting through the dark like a blade. The confrontation.

Carl’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “They dragged Victor out of his car. Beat him. Tom tried to step in, but they knocked him out cold. When he woke up…” He trailed off, leaving the words unsaid.

“They found Victor’s body near the windmill,” Ruth finished, her voice flat. “Not a soul in sight, but everyone knew who’d done it. James disappeared after that, and the windmill’s shadow only grew darker.”

I left the diner with a heavier heart than I’d entered with, but the stories didn’t stop there. Introducing Ben Hanlon to the locals had been a smart move — one I hadn’t fully realized at the time. Something about his curiosity, the way he asked questions without sounding like he was digging for dirt, made people trust him. As far as I could tell, he had a knack for pulling threads, unraveling details that others might not have noticed.

After I vouched for him, the town seemed to soften, their guarded silence cracking just enough to let him in. People who wouldn’t normally say more than a hello started offering their own versions of what had happened, as though sharing their stories might finally lift the shadow that had fallen over Kayro. Whether it was the windmill, Sam, or something else entirely, they spoke to Ben with a candor I hadn’t seen in years.

Some spoke of its builder, a man whose name had been lost to time. He’d come to Kayro full of ambition, planning to revolutionize the town with his creation. But before the windmill was finished, tragedy struck. A fire consumed his home, taking his wife and children with it. He abandoned the project, leaving the skeletal structure to stand as a monument to his grief.

Others claimed the windmill was cursed from the start. They whispered about strange lights seen at its base, about the sound of chanting carried on the wind. They said the windmill had been used for rituals, dark ceremonies that left scars on the land and echoes in the air.

I wasn’t sure what to believe. All I knew was that the stories were endless, each one more unsettling than the last.

The bar was quieter than usual, most of the locals having already turned in for the night. Ben and I sat at a corner booth, half-empty bottles of beer between us, the faint hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filling the space between words.

Ben leaned forward, his elbows on the table, eyes sharp even in the dim light. “That symbol on the windmill’s door,” he started, his voice low but intent. “You really think it doesn’t mean anything?”

I shrugged, tipping my bottle to study the last dregs at the bottom. “Could be kids fooling around. Or maybe it’s been there forever, and no one noticed until now.”

Ben wasn’t buying it. “You saw it. It’s too clean, too deliberate. A circle split in half? That’s not random graffiti.”

“Sure,” I said, setting the bottle down with a soft thud. “And the whole town doesn’t want a mystery. You’ve heard them — curses, ghosts, rituals. Everyone’s got their own theory, and every one of them is wilder than the last.”

Ben tilted his head, that faint journalist’s smile creeping onto his face, the one that always made it feel like he knew something you didn’t. “That doesn’t bother you? That they’d rather cling to folklore than face the truth?”

He didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing like he was piecing something together. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know how it works,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “Truth doesn’t come easy in a place like Kayro. It’s always wrapped up in whispers or buried under fifty years of silence. Believing in the windmill? That’s easier than digging into whatever really happened.”

I shook my head, letting his words hang between us for a moment. “You’re not wrong,” I said finally, the weight of it settling in.

That night, walking home, my thoughts drifted back to the windmill. I couldn’t see it from where I was, but I didn’t need to. It sat at the edge of Kayro, perched on a rocky hill like it was keeping watch. Under the full moon, its rusted frame must’ve caught just enough light to glow faintly, the kind of glow that didn’t feel comforting. The blades, tilted and unmoving, would’ve been quiet, but the windmill itself… it always felt alive.

The land around it was bare and stubborn, patches of dry grass clinging to cracks in the rock. Beyond that, the hills stretched endlessly, folding into mist that blurred the horizon. From up there, the whole town would be laid out below, small and still, like it was trying to shrink into itself.

The windmill didn’t just stand apart — it demanded attention. Even when it wasn’t in sight, it lingered in your mind, heavy and unshakable. I couldn’t explain it, but it felt like it was waiting. For what, I didn’t know. But its shadow stretched far, reaching into places no one wanted to look.

“Even as dawn broke over Kayro, its shadow lingered, heavy and cold.”
‘Every thirty years, give or take,’ Ben muttered, circling the old newspaper dates. ‘And there’s always a mark. Somewhere.’

The next chapter will be released in two weeks. Stay tuned to uncover the secrets of Kayro.

Up Next: The Shape of Rust: Chapter 5 (Soon)