The Shape of Rust: Chapter 6
Sacrifice
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.
To start at the beginning: Prologue
For the chapter before this one: Chapter 5
The badlands stretched out before me, an endless maze of jagged ridges and desolate gullies, their layered sedimentary rock formations telling stories written in the language of time. Pale yellows and whites faded into darker grays and rich reds, the colors running together like ink spilled on parchment. Sparse tufts of stubborn vegetation clung to the eroded ground, their roots winding into the cracks as if holding the earth together. Overhead, the sky seemed impossibly vast, a brilliant blue canvas streaked with clouds that shifted and twisted in the midday light. From this vantage point, it was hard to imagine anything sinister lurking beyond the horizon, but I knew better.
The windmill wasn’t far, perched on its rocky outcrop like a sentinel. Its skeletal frame loomed over the town of Kayro, silent but never still, its rusted blades poised at an angle that defied the stillness of the air. The shadows of its towering presence reached deep into the valley below, as if clawing at the edges of the lives it refused to let go.
It wasn’t just the windmill anymore. Its influence was spreading, seeping into every crack and crevice of the town. Flickering lights cast jagged shadows in the windows of Suzie’s Diner. Conversations that should have been friendly murmurs were now hushed whispers. Even the air felt different, heavier somehow, as though the town itself was holding its breath, waiting for something none of us could name.
Sally had grown worse. For hours, she would sit on her porch, her gaze locked on the hill where the windmill stood. When Josephine, her mother, tried to snap her out of it, Sally would dismiss her with unsettling remarks.
“They’re trying to tell me something,” she said once, her voice flat and distant. “I just need to listen.”
I’d seen people unravel before, but never like this. It wasn’t just grief — it was like something was pulling her away, stripping her of herself piece by piece.
Ben and I spent the better part of the afternoon combing through the town archives again. The librarian, Mabel, had set aside a stack of old ledgers and documents for us. “Some of these are from before the fire,” she explained softly, her hands trembling slightly as she handed them over. “They might be what you’re looking for.”
Most of the papers were mundane — property deeds, inventory lists, records of marriages and births. But one ledger caught Ben’s attention. Its pages were brittle, the ink faded, but there it was: a reference to a substructure beneath the windmill.
“It’s strange,” Mabel said, her voice barely above a whisper. “No one’s ever found anything like that. Maybe it’s just an error.”
Ben and I exchanged a look. Errors weren’t uncommon, but in Kayro, coincidences didn’t exist.
The call came just after dusk.
Sally was gone.
Her mother had found her room empty, the window left open, and her shoes — neatly placed by the door, as if she intended to return. A faint trail of footprints led toward the hill, disappearing into the rocky terrain just before the windmill.
When we arrived, the windmill was spinning again, its creaking blades slicing through the air with an unnatural rhythm. There was no wind, no storm, yet it moved with purpose, each turn a reminder of its grip on this town.
“She walked there,” I said, my voice barely audible. “She wanted to go.”
The decision to enter the windmill wasn’t made lightly. Armed with flashlights and a deep sense of dread, Ben and I approached the structure, the gravel crunching beneath our boots. The whispers began as we drew closer, faint at first but growing louder, as if the wind itself had learned to speak.
Inside, the air was thick and cold, and the wooden floor groaned beneath our weight. Strange symbols, the same bisected circle from Mikey’s note, were etched into the walls, their grooves filled with an almost imperceptible glow. Shadows danced across the beams, shifting and writhing in ways that defied the movement of our lights.
“This place…” Ben whispered, his voice tight. “It feels alive.”
The whispers seemed to converge at the center of the room, where a trapdoor lay embedded in the floor. Its edges were worn smooth, and the same symbol was carved into its surface, larger and deeper than the others.
The trapdoor opened with a creak that echoed in the stillness, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness. As we descended, the air grew colder, the whispers more distinct, though the words were still just out of reach. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of the unknown pressing down on us.
At the bottom, we found a chamber unlike anything I’d ever seen. The walls were covered in carvings, their lines jagged and haphazard, depicting a windmill surrounded by shadowy figures. The blades in the carvings were different — jagged and sharp, more like claws than the rusted metal above us.
In the center of the room was a small pedestal, and atop it sat a rusted key.
“What do you think it opens?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ben didn’t answer. His attention was fixed on the carvings, his expression dark. “This isn’t just a windmill,” he said finally. “It’s… a monument. A shrine to something.”
Before I could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed from above. I swung my flashlight toward the staircase, but the beam caught only empty air.
The climb back up was slower, the air heavier with every step. By the time we reached the top, the windmill’s creaking had grown deafening, and the glow from the cracks in the floor was pulsating, a heartbeat of light that seemed to draw us in.
Outside, the blades were spinning faster than I’d ever seen, the ground beneath us trembling with each turn. Then, it happened — a scream, piercing and raw, cutting through the night like a blade.
“Sally,” Ben said, his voice sharp with urgency.
We turned toward the windmill, its silhouette monstrous against the night sky. The full moon hung low on the horizon, its light casting long shadows over the rugged terrain. Beyond the windmill, the badlands stretched wide and vast, their ridges and gullies fading into the mist. The landscape felt alive, as if it were watching us, waiting for our next move.
The scream echoed again, and this time, it was unmistakable. Sally was still here.
As the windmill’s blades spun faster and faster, the ground began to tremble beneath our feet. I dropped my flashlight, the beam casting erratic shadows across the rocky terrain before fading into darkness.
Above us, the sky seemed to ripple, the clouds twisting unnaturally as the moon’s light painted the landscape in stark, otherworldly hues. The windmill loomed larger than ever, its silhouette sharp against the horizon.
Somewhere in the distance, the sound of Sally’s scream faded, leaving only the deafening rhythm of the windmill’s blades and the oppressive silence of the badlands.
Up Next: The Shape of Rust: Chapter 7 (Soon)
“The ground split wide beneath the windmill, bleeding light and sound into the night. And then came the voice — not Sally’s, not Sam’s, but something older, something that had been waiting beneath Kayro for far too long.”
The next chapter will be released in two weeks. Stay tuned to uncover the secrets of Kayro.
