At the edge of the town stood an old soap factory, closed after a fire years ago. People said it smelled sweet, like roses mixed with something rotten.
Sophia got a night shift job there to help clean the factory before it reopened.The first night was quiet. The place smelled old, heavy with dust. On one wall, Sophia saw some names scratched into the paint. Maybe old workers did it, she thought.
The next night, the smell changed. It wasn’t the smell of roses anymore. It was sharp and metallic, like blood.
When she passed through the drying room, rows of fresh soap bars were neatly stacked on the shelves. They looked new. Too new. When she touched one, it was warm.
Then the lights flickered. A whisper echoed through the room, “Don’t wash us away.”
The soap began to melt slowly, their scent growing stronger and stronger, almost choking. Sophia stumbled back, terrified.
The next morning, the factory smelled of roses again. The door was open, and a fresh bar of soap lay on the counter. Below the old names on the wall, one more had appeared.
Sophia.
