The Press That Never Stopped – A Dusty Discovery

It was late, too late for any sane person to be wandering the outskirts of Millhaven, but there I was, chasing a hunch. I’m a reporter, you see, the kind who still believes in ink and paper, even when everyone else has gone digital. That’s when I found it—an old warehouse, crumbling at the edges, with a faint hum spilling out into the night. Inside, a printing press—ancient, rusted, but alive—churning out newspapers with headlines that twisted my gut. Mayor Missing: Vanished in Fog, one read. Funny thing? Our mayor was alive and well, last I checked. I stepped closer, the air thick with the smell of oil and something sour, like secrets gone stale.

Headlines From Nowhere

The papers kept coming, sliding off the press in a steady rhythm. I grabbed a stack, my hands shaking as I skimmed them. Factory Fire Claims Dozens—another headline screamed, but Millhaven’s factory had been shuttered since the ’80s. Then there was War Looms on Eastern Border—we’re a hundred miles from any border worth mentioning. These weren’t just mistakes; they felt deliberate, like someone was rewriting reality one sheet at a time. I flipped through more, noticing dates—some from last week, others stamped years ahead. My pulse raced. Who was printing this? And why?

The Shadow Behind the Ink

I traced the power cord from the press, winding through cobwebs to a breaker box that shouldn’t have been live. That’s when I saw the symbol—scratched into the metal, a circle with three jagged lines, like a claw mark. I’d seen it before, on a letter slipped under my door last month, unsigned, warning me to “stop digging.” I hadn’t thought much of it then—just another crank—but now it felt like a neon sign. Someone, or something, was watching. I rummaged through the warehouse, finding scraps—a ledger with names I half-recognized (local council members, a retired editor), and a photo of a man in a long coat, his face blurred, standing by the press decades ago.

A Code in the Margins

Back at my desk, I spread the papers out, looking for patterns. That’s when I noticed it—tiny numbers in the margins, faint but consistent. I’m no cryptographer, but I’ve cracked enough small-town scandals to spot a code. After hours of trial and error, I pieced it together—dates, locations, instructions. One line read 10/15, Town Hall, Shift Narrative. October 15 was three days ago, when the mayor announced a sudden budget cut no one saw coming. Fact and fiction started blurring right there. Were these papers reporting the news—or making it?

The Man in the Coat

I dug into the photo next, asking around discreetly. Old-timers at the diner remembered a guy like that—Elias Crowe, they called him. Ran the Millhaven Gazette back in the ’60s, then vanished after a big story about government land deals got quashed. Some said he died; others swore he just went quiet. I found his last address—a shack outside town, barely standing. Inside, I hit gold—a journal, yellowed but legible, ranting about “controlling the story” and “keeping them blind.” Elias had been obsessed with power, not just reporting news but shaping it. The last entry mentioned the press, calling it “the machine that bends time.”

Caught in the Print

I went back to the warehouse, determined to shut it down. But the press wasn’t alone anymore. A figure stood there—long coat, face shadowed, just like in the photo. “You’re late,” he said, voice like gravel. I froze. He tossed me a fresh paper, still warm from the rollers. The headline? Reporter Disappears Investigating Warehouse. My name was in the subhead. I bolted, heart hammering, but the hum followed me, louder, like it was printing faster. The next day, my editor called, asking why I hadn’t filed my latest story. I checked my notes—they were gone. The papers, the photo, all of it, like I’d dreamed it. Except one thing—that claw-mark symbol, now scratched into my desk.

The Distorted Truth

I’m still here, writing this, but I don’t know for how long. The press keeps running—I hear it in my sleep now, that relentless hum. Yesterday, a new headline showed up in my mailbox: Town Forgets Local Reporter. No date, no byline, just those damn claw marks in the corner. I called my editor to check in—he didn’t recognize my name. Friends I’ve known for years look at me like I’m a stranger. The newsstand downtown swapped out yesterday’s paper for one with a blank spot where my last article should’ve been. It’s not just erasing me—it’s rewriting everything around me.

Who Pulls the Strings?

I’ve got theories, but they sound insane even to me. Elias Crowe didn’t just disappear—he became something else, something tied to that press. Maybe he found a way to print his will onto the world, bending truth until it’s whatever he wants it to be. Or maybe it’s bigger—a network of shadow printers, feeding distorted stories into every town like Millhaven, keeping us all half-blind. I dug online, found whispers of similar tales: a paper in Oregon predicting a flood that never happened, a Midwest town swearing their election results shifted overnight. Fact? Fiction? It’s all mud now.

The Fight for the Page

I’m not done yet. I’ve got a typewriter—old-school, no tech to hack—and I’m hammering out what I can. If the press can rewrite me out of existence, I’ll write myself back in. Last night, I broke into the warehouse again. The figure was gone, but the press was still spitting out lies. I smashed the rollers, poured gasoline, lit a match. It burned bright, but the hum didn’t stop—it just got quieter, like it moved somewhere else. This morning, my typewriter ribbon was slashed, claw marks on the keys. I’m running out of ink, out of time. But I’ll keep going. Someone’s got to.

 A Final Word—or Is It?

If you’re reading this, maybe I made it through. Or maybe this is just another sheet off the press, twisted to fit their story. Check your papers, your screens—look for the claw marks. They’re there, I swear it. Millhaven’s quiet today, too quiet, and I can’t shake the feeling I’m already a ghost. The Distorted Times isn’t just a name—it’s a warning. Who controls the news? Not me, not anymore. Maybe not even you.