Chapter 8: Shadows of the Past

Pranav and Thameem stepped into the eerie confines of Patel Textiles, a ghost of a factory long abandoned. The structure itself felt like a mausoleum, holding not just broken machines but secrets buried in layers of dust. The cold, stale air clung to them as they ventured deeper, their footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness. The towering, rusted machines stood still, draped in cobwebs like monuments of forgotten labor. The silence felt unnatural, as though something—unseen—was watching.

Pranav glanced around, his thoughts drifting back to the stories Govindan had told them. Patel Textiles hadn’t just been a place of work; it had been a site of suffering. The chemical, Hexachlorine, which the factory used, was cheap and deadly, slowly killing those exposed to it. Pranav imagined the workers inhaling the fumes, their bodies slowly poisoned over the years. The walls of the factory seemed to breathe with the memories of pain, and the farther they went, the heavier the atmosphere became.

“This place feels cursed,” Thameem murmured, his voice barely audible in the vast silence. He rubbed his arms, trying to shake the unease.

Pranav said nothing, but he couldn’t deny the sensation creeping up his spine. The factory was more than abandoned—it felt forsaken. He led Thameem down the long hallway that Govindan had described, weaving through the skeleton of the building, until they reached a large, rusted door at the far end. The medical room.

Pranav paused, his hand hovering over the handle. “Here it is,” he muttered, pushing the door open. Inside, the room was a nightmare come to life.

Stale air hit their faces, mixed with the faint, metallic scent of dried blood. The walls were stained, the paint peeling away in long, jagged strips, revealing what seemed like years of decay. On the floor, broken syringes and stained surgical tools lay scattered. An ancient gurney, rusted and covered in grime, sat in the center of the room like a forgotten relic of failed salvation.

Pranav stood in silence, trying to piece together the horror that must have unfolded here. Workers, poisoned by Hexachlorine, their bodies falling apart from the inside, had likely come here in desperation. But this room wasn’t equipped for medical care—it was a deathbed. He imagined the workers writhing in pain, limbs swelling and decaying, their bodies betraying them as the toxic chemical ate away at their flesh.

“This is where they brought themselves to die,” Pranav whispered. He could see the images in his mind as clearly as if they were playing out before him. Some had tried to amputate their infected limbs, but it was futile. They were dying, and no amount of crude medical treatment could save them.

Thameem swallowed hard, his eyes wide with horror. “This is beyond anything I imagined, sir.”

Pranav’s face was grim as he pulled out his phone and began taking photos of the scene. Each click of the shutter captured the stark reality of the factory’s dark past. The factory had closed, not just because of financial failure, but because it was a tomb—workers had died here, their lives consumed by the toxic cloud of Hexachlorine.

Pranav turned to leave, his mind racing. They needed answers, and they needed them fast.

When they reached the corporate office, the tension followed them. The slick, modern building of Patel Industries stood in sharp contrast to the decaying ruins of the factory. But Pranav wasn’t fooled—he knew that beneath the polished surface, there were layers of corruption and deceit.

They entered Rajagopal’s office without knocking, their sudden arrival causing the CFO to flinch. Rajagopal, a man in his mid-fifties, was visibly uncomfortable, and Pranav wasted no time.

“We found the medical room,” Pranav said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “We know what happened at that factory.”

Rajagopal’s eyes widened slightly, but he tried to maintain composure. “Inspector, I’ve told you everything I know,” he said, his voice strained. “I’m new here. I was appointed just a few months ago, and I don’t have the full history.”

Pranav wasn’t buying it. He pulled out the photos he had taken at the factory, spreading them out on the table. “Look at these,” he said coldly. “Tell me what you know about this.”

Rajagopal’s face paled as he looked at the images. The photos of the medical room, the bloodstained walls, the broken tools. His hands began to tremble, and for a moment, he couldn’t find his voice. When he finally spoke, it was a strained whisper. “I… I didn’t realize… it was this bad.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Pranav snapped, leaning forward. “You knew. Everyone here knew what was happening in that factory.”

Rajagopal’s face broke, the facade of calm shattering. “Yes, I knew! I knew about the trade dispute,” he blurted out, sweat forming on his brow. “The union filed a complaint, but it was dismissed in favor of Patel Industries. The case was closed last month. The factory was losing money, the cash flow was terrible, and it had to shut down.”

Pranav leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “Who filed the complaint?”

Rajagopal hesitated, then muttered, “It was the union leader, i have the case file it states the leader. He was one of the workers who fought back, tried to expose what was happening. But after the case was closed, he… disappeared.”

Thameem’s eyes widened. “So, he was silenced?”

Rajagopal nodded, panic filling his eyes. “Please, Inspector, I didn’t want to hide this from you. I was afraid. The factory is a liability, and Manav Patel… he’s not someone you want to cross.”

Pranav’s gaze darkened. “When was the last time you spoke with Manav?”

“Four days ago,” Rajagopal stammered. “I’ve been trying to reach him, but he’s been unresponsive. I was on leave—my wife had surgery—but I’ve been back since yesterday. No one’s heard from him.”

Pranav stepped back, folding his arms. “Call him. Now. And get the rest of the board members on the line.”

Rajagopal fumbled for his phone, dialing frantically. He called Manav, then the other directors, but no one answered. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he tried again, to no avail. “They’re not picking up,” he said, his voice shaking.

Pranav’s expression remained cold. “The moment you hear from them, you contact me. Understand?”

Rajagopal nodded quickly, looking defeated. “Yes, Inspector. I swear, I’ll keep you informed.”

"Moreover, give me the case file" Pranav asked. "Sure, sir" replied Rajagopal and handed the case file.

Pranav turned on his heel, motioning for Thameem to follow. As they exited the office, Pranav’s phone rang. It was the forensic team.

“Inspector, we found traces of Hexachlorine on the hand. Your assumption was correct.”

Pranav felt a chill run down his spine. Hexachlorine. The chemical that had poisoned those workers—and now, it was tied to the decaying hand that had been sent to the station. “Send the report to my desk. I’ll be there soon,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the revelation.

As Pranav hung up, he noticed Thameem deep in conversation with the security guard outside the building. The old man had a worn, haunted look on his face.

“I was there, sir,” the guard said quietly. “At the factory. I worked there for years. Saw things I can’t forget. Those workers—they didn’t just die. They suffered, and no one cared. It’s like their souls are still there, trapped.”

Thameem’s face grew serious as he relayed the information to Pranav. “Sir, the guard said he worked at the factory when it was open. He said the workers died horrible deaths. Their spirits still haunt the place.”

Pranav nodded, his mind racing. “The factory is a graveyard,” he muttered, more to himself than to Thameem. “And someone’s trying to keep the truth buried.”

As they walked toward their jeep, Pranav handed Thameem the case file Rajagopal had given him. “Look at this,” he said, flipping through the pages. “The trade dispute case—it was filed by Balan, and it was dismissed. The factory was shut down shortly after.”

Thameem’s face went pale. “Sir, does this mean Manav Patel is behind everything?”

Pranav didn’t respond, his mind still working through the pieces of the puzzle. Just then, his phone rang again, this time from the station.

The voice on the other end was urgent. “Sir, it’s the missing hand case. It’s escalated. Three bodies have been found—hung from the traffic lights near the station. All three are missing their left hands.”

Pranav stood still, the weight of the revelation hitting him hard. The missing hand had been a grim prelude to something far worse.