Something lives in the warehouse.

I don't know what it is, but it's probably been there for a long time, long before I started

exploring in place, at least.

A massive warehouse just outside the city limits of my mid-size hometown in Illinois.

There's at least five stories to the thing, and I've only ever explored the first and

second.

Big enough that the mazes of shipping containers are all hiding new surprises, nooks, crannies,

home-to-dust pests.

An occasional odd trinket that I'd pocket.

Nothing massive.

I've looked in a couple of the old crates, too.

Stuff stored there was mostly just clothes, places been abandoned for long enough that most

of it's just rotted away, been eaten away by moths as time goes by.

Thing is, the clothes, or whatever else used to be kept there, aren't what really makes

the place interesting.

I started noticing the pattern of weird noises somewhere around my fifth or sixth trip,

scraping sounds like someone was moving a box on one of the floors high above me.

Something that sounded like footsteps.

But far slower than humans.

The rustle of something soft being moved around, something far too close for comfort.

The acoustics of the warehouse seemed to conduct sound particularly well, so even though I

could tell most of the noises were far away, I could still discern what they were, or

...