The Shape of Rust: Chapter 7
Heart
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 6
The windmill’s blades spun with a furious, deafening rhythm, cutting through the darkened sky like jagged scythes. A low, ominous hum pulsed beneath the ground, vibrating through the soles of my boots as Ben and I stood frozen at the edge of the windmill’s shadow. Sally’s scream still echoed in my ears, even though the night had swallowed its sound.
“She’s here,” I said, my voice barely audible over the relentless creak of the blades.
Ben didn’t respond. His face was tight with dread, his eyes fixed on the faint glow seeping from the cracks in the windmill’s foundation. We both knew that scream had changed everything. The stories, the whispers, the half-believed tales of curses — they weren’t just folklore anymore. They were real.
And they were pulling us in.
The trapdoor groaned as it gave way beneath my hands, revealing the narrow staircase spiraling into the darkness below. The glow from the floor cracks bathed the stairs in a faint, sickly light, and the air that wafted up was cold and damp, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and something metallic.
Ben hesitated behind me, his flashlight trembling slightly as he pointed it into the void. “Are we really doing this?”
“We don’t have a choice,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “If she’s down there…”
I didn’t finish the thought. I didn’t need to.
The first step creaked beneath my weight, followed by the second. The deeper we descended, the louder the whispers grew. They weren’t just sounds anymore — they were words. Fragmented, broken phrases that seemed to twist in the air before dissolving into the low hum that vibrated through the walls.
The chamber was alive. That was the only way to describe it. The jagged carvings on the walls seemed to move under the shifting light, their lines curling and writhing like veins beneath skin. The floor pulsed faintly, each beat synchronized with the unnatural thrum that filled the air.
Ben swept his flashlight over the room, revealing the same circle of broken tools and melted candles we’d seen before. But now, the symbols etched into the wood glowed faintly, as though the room itself was waking up.
“This isn’t just a ritual site,” Ben murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a machine. They built it to do something.”
In the center of the room stood the mechanism we’d found earlier. It looked older now, rusted and decayed, but it still radiated a sense of purpose. The journal we’d discovered lay open beside it, its pages fluttering in a breeze that shouldn’t have existed.
I picked it up, my fingers trembling as I flipped through the brittle pages. The builder’s words seemed to burn into my mind as I read them aloud.
“‘Energy flows beneath this place — an ancient current, older than the soil itself. The mill’s purpose is to bridge the divide. But the price is steep. To open the door, something must be given.”
Ben’s face was pale. “The heart of the mill,” he said, his voice hollow. “That’s what it is. It’s… alive.”
We barely made it up the stairs.
The chamber seemed to fight us, its whispers rising into a cacophony that made it hard to think, let alone move. The walls groaned, the carvings writhing as though trying to block our path. Each step felt heavier than the last, the air growing colder and more suffocating the closer we got to the surface.
When we finally emerged, the trapdoor slammed shut behind us with a force that nearly knocked me off my feet.
Outside, the windmill was alive with sound. Its blades spun so fast they blurred, and the ground beneath it trembled violently. The glow from the foundation had grown brighter, casting jagged shadows across the rocky terrain.
And then we saw her.
Sally stood at the edge of the field, her figure silhouetted against the eerie glow. She wasn’t moving — just standing there, staring at the windmill with an intensity that sent a chill down my spine.
Her skin had a faint bluish tint, like the early stages of frostbite, and her eyes were glassy, unfocused. When we called her name, she didn’t respond.
Ben and I approached cautiously, the hum of the windmill growing louder with each step. When we were close enough to hear her, Sally began to speak — not to us, but to someone else.
“Sam?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Is that you? I’m here. I… I’m ready.”
Her words sent a shiver through me. She was hallucinating — or worse, she was speaking to something we couldn’t see.
Ben reached out, his hand trembling as he touched her shoulder. The moment his fingers brushed her skin, Sally collapsed, her body crumpling to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
We didn’t have time to process what had just happened.
The windmill roared behind us, its blades slicing through the air with a deafening screech. The ground trembled violently, throwing us off balance as a loud cracking sound echoed through the field.
“Get her up!” I shouted, my voice barely audible over the noise.
Ben grabbed Sally’s arms while I lifted her legs, and together we stumbled away from the windmill. But before we could get far, the ground beneath it gave way.
A fissure opened at the base of the windmill, wide and jagged, emitting a blinding light that pulsed in time with the hum. The light wasn’t natural — it was too bright, too cold, too alive.
I stopped in my tracks, unable to look away. It was as though the earth itself was tearing apart, revealing something it was never meant to show.
The windmill stood tall above the chaos, its silhouette sharp against the trembling horizon. The full moon hung low in the sky, its pale light painting the badlands in stark contrasts of shadow and silver. Beyond the fissure, the rugged terrain stretched endlessly, its ridges and gullies fading into the mist.
The windmill was the only thing that felt solid, its spinning blades casting warped shadows over the rocky ground. For a moment, everything seemed to stop — the tremors, the noise, even the air itself.
And then, from the depths of the fissure, a sound emerged.
It was a voice — not Sally’s, not Sam’s, but something older, something that had been waiting beneath Kayro for far too long.
Up Next: The Shape of Rust: Chapter 8 (Soon)
The windmill had burned, the fissure sealed, and the ground silenced.
But just before I turned away, the air shifted — faint and familiar.
“The cycle must …” she had said.
The final chapter will be released in two weeks. Kayro is quiet now. But listen closely. It never stays that way for long.
