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Rubberbound

WC:2623

Kinks: Drone, TF, Rubber

Statement of Caleb Sheen, regarding his exploration and capture at an abandoned factory. Originally given 17th _May 2015. Audio recording by Edwin Swales, archival assistant at the Kleypas Foundation, Glasgow. _

Statement begins.

I want to thank you for your time, I know it’s not easy seeing me…anyone like this, but the doctors here said this is your area of expertise. Whatever that means. Right, I should probably start at the beginning.

Urban exploration has always been a hobby of mine, particularly focusing on abandonments. Think homes, blocked off train stations, hospitals. Factories. The hollow shells of our past. I know some of my friends prefer draining, focusing on service tunnels and storm drains, but that’s not my cup of tea. Way too cramped. Of course, there’s always risk when breaking and entering, something the officers here aren’t too happy to deal with. As long as you’re careful, avoiding crumbling architecture and watching your step, you’ll be fine. Granted, it’s not the first time I’ve run into the odd tramp and had to vacate if they got angsty.

As for the why, that’s a bit more complicated. I’m mainly into urbex for photography, you can get shots you simply can’t recreate anywhere else. They simply feel more real, compared to some of the staged stuff you see at the cinema. Not only that, I can net a nice payday from licensing them out online.

About a week ago, Emile Piper contacted me for some freelance work. He wanted some photos for a book cover. I can’t tell you much about the man, I didn’t ask. Hell, I only had a Skype call with him and he seemed normal, explaining what shots he was looking for. Abandoned industrial complexes, machines, and the like. It wasn’t too unusual, but he seemed to be looking for something particular. Stranger, he insisted on a location – Westhill Rubberworks

I’ve never heard of the location, strange as I live in Drumoak, just 10 miles from the place. I can’t lie and say I wasn’t excited about documenting a new abandonment, putting my mark on the map… plus the pay he offered up front would ensure I wouldn’t need to worry about my rent for the next few months. So yeah, I accepted.

I took a few hours for myself, mainly sleeping as I was going to have a bit of a long night, before heading off to Westhill at dusk. It was a half hour drive in all, I had to check maps several times as all signs for the location were taken down, but I found it. No idea how I missed it, as it stuck out like a cold sore. The corrugated steel walls were rusted and punched with holes and it looked like someone took a truck for a joyride, smashing the loading doors open. It struck me as odd, but I was thankful I wouldn’t need to use my wire cutters to get in.

The Rubberworks was as abandoned as it looked, I couldn’t see any security cameras, or even a trailer some guards would be cozying up in that sticky spring air. Hell, I didn’t even see any signs warning trespassers. That tied a knot in my gut, but at the time I was glad it would be an easy in and out. Spend a few hours there, take photos of anything that fit the description of “moody, cyberpunk, horror” and get out. Easy-osey!

Or so I thought.

I hefted my bag and myself past the crumpled remains of the loading bay doors, and the first thing that hit me was the smell of rubber. Thick, acrid and sticky like passing a field of rape. It set a coughing fit off, and I had to scramble outside for a few moments before I felt I got used to the air. I think there might have been a fire, or maybe a chemical spill that happened at some point, but whatever it was, it stank!

Still, I thought I wouldn’t be staying for long. Well, you knew how that turned out.

The first thing I took a picture of was some abandoned forklifts, half eaten by rust near some rotten drums. It wasn’t quite the right vibe I was looking for, so I continued down those empty halls. Truth be told, I thought the factory was a bust, but the money was too good to pass up. Next thing that fit the criteria was an old ass desktop that was in some sort of rubber mixing chamber. I felt it still wasn’t quite the right subject for the photo, still another flash, another one for my aloof client.

I know, it’s very interesting, hearing me skulk around this building. It’s all very bland, safe… I know you want to hear about the basement. How two weeks of my life are just missing. Overtaken by…that thing.

I must have been exploring for nearly an hour, and I got a good amount of pictures. A good forty and I was about to call it quits. My arms were aching from steadying the shots. Best case, I’d have enough and I get a happy client, which makes my bank happy. Worse case, well, it’s not like the factory was going anywhere. Each of my footsteps echoed against the concrete floors, reminding me that I should’ve been alone.

That’s when something clattered behind me.

I’m not ashamed to say I screamed. Like who wouldn’t in my case? Being led to believe you’re completely alone, not even hearing the scratching of rats, then clannngg! I could feel my heart thrum in my chest, ears straining against the blood rushing in my ears. I could hear the pipe rolling, clattering again. Down. Down. Down some stairs

There was a basement?

How could I have missed that? A basement filled with God knows what, my next bonus? I should’ve taken my winnings, but I’ve always struggled with doubling down. I slung my torch, lighting up the concrete walls and shattered tables before I saw the heavy industrial door swinging. Honestly, I couldn’t say if it was there before. It must’ve been, right? Doors don’t just appear randomly.They don’t move on their own.

I stared them down before swearing. A quick look couldn’t hurt.

The staircase wobbled as I made my descent, each step rattling against the loose bolts. My knuckles went white, gripping the railing as I thought the staircase would give out and I’d plummet against the inky void below. Looking back, it was clearly a sign that I should’ve turned back, go home, but by the time that thought was finished my feet touched solid ground.

The beam of my torch landed on the pipe, and it looked…off. Half of it looked like it was coated in thick ink, or grease. Something not normal. Perfect for a photo. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was led into some trap. That some creature would leap from the shadows; a gang would swing their bats at me and shatter my legs. No. Those were just thoughts.

My thoughts started to slip, those sweet scents hitting my nostrils sending me to the place of my youth, when I grew up I always liked the flowers around my house. Oooh, they smelled so great! <The interviewee went on for several minutes, even describing how the chalk at school smelled appealing to him> Anyway, my thoughts started to slip once the thick scent of rubber filled my lungs.

Driving me into the inky dark.

The next part is difficult for me to describe. I wasn’t myself, not fully. Everything was muffled, like wading through a river, like hearing people speaking but the words not quite making sense. I was on a table, my wrists and ankles pinned by thick leather cuffs, but in my state, I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Through my blurred vision, I saw a figure looming near my feet, motionless, waiting for some unseen hand to puppet the strings into play. I tried to speak, but it came out as a slurred mess, but the figure didn’t care.

Minutes passed and my vision focused on my captor. He – it wasn’t human. Humans aren’t made of rubber. They didn’t breathe like a dying engine. This creature suddenly shook to life, moving to a nearby table, allowing me to get a clear look at the blank gas mask that covered its face. Two dark lenses covered the eyes, allowing myself to see my reflection. Restrained and helpless. I also saw two tubes that attached to the side of the mask leading toward a small tank on their back.

Moving with robotic precision, this being – this drone picked up a pair of shears from the table and started cutting. First, the drone sliced through my shirt, then made quick work of my jeans and briefs. It painfully pulled the cut cloth from under me, like a dirty artist’s rag. My skin prickled like gooseflesh in the dank air. My captor replaced the scissors and picked something squirming up.

I couldn’t scream. God, I wanted to.

It was holding a mask. A gas mask exactly like its own, its straps writhing like legs, like a suspended animal that was trying to find its footing. I knew what was in store for me. I pulled at my restraints, my wrists aching at the act. It was useless. A thin tube shot out from the suspended mask, feeling its way around my cheeks before pushing between my lips. It was cold. Wet. It kept forcing itself down my throat, the taste was overwhelming and made me qualm.

It was all I could think about, how strong the rubber was, how it overtook everything. The mask was lowered on my face and I could feel that cold latex tense my muscles. Those straps moved on their own accord, wrapping itself around my skull. It felt like it was squeezing my resistance out, forcing my arms to turn to lead, making my body an unmovable anchor.

I was forced to take long deep breaths of rubberised air, which made my thoughts cloudy. A deep breath in. A long exhale out. That’s when I heard it. A whisper. One telling me that I was safe. That I should relax. Just breathe in the rubber and obey.

I struggled to see through the darkened gas masks’ lenses, only able to see the outline of the drone beside me. It picked what seemed to be a bucket up, the heavy liquid sloshing against the sides. I think you can guess what happened next.

I felt compelled to.

The drone poured the bucket’s content over me, the viscous polymer coating my chest. It was drizzled over my limbs – even my cock was coated in thick writhing rubber. I could see it spreading out, wrapping around my body and squeezing it. All while, the whisper from the mask grew louder.

Drop. Give into the rubber. Open your mind to the Hive. Obey us.

The latex shifted around my groin. Pulling my erection down against my sac and sealing it into a thick mound of rubber. A bulge that throbbed and squeezed on its own accord.

Enjoy the rubber. Drop. Follow the pleasure.

Each thought shot electricity though my encased cock, pushing those thoughts to the front of my mind. I didn’t know if the goal was to break me down, or to condition my body, but it worked. I felt my hips buck against the air with every squeeze of my dick. Fuck, I hated it. How my body betrayed me for this pleasure.

The rubber seeped under my legs, exploring and prodding for an entrance. And found it. Between the commands to drop and obey , the latex grazed against my puckered entrance, and pushed in. It was cold. Faced no resistance as it slid in, coating my insides in rubber.

The voice grew louder and louder. Drop. Sink. Obey. They overpowered the rasp of my captor’s respirator.

Each command thrusted the tentacle deeper, teasing and massaging me. I couldn’t help but follow the commands. It was intoxicating to do so.

Drop.

The command pushed new thoughts into my head. Better thoughts. How obeying like a good drone felt so good. How being part of the hive is perfect. Each drone was loved by us – by the hive we mean. These thoughts didn’t originate with me. That’s obvious. I couldn’t help but listen to the voice and follow the images that it painted. It was a better world it offered, one of no stress or worry. My body cried out for this.

Obey the hive.

I needed this.

My body shuddered at the confession, my bulge squirming in pleasure. I could feel my mind being pushed down, supplanted by the rubber. The mask. The Hive. This was a possession, something I wanted to let in.

Serve the Hive.

I… needed to. To-

I don’t remember anything after that.

Memories flashed, fractured and incoherent until I woke up in the middle of the road. I don’t know what I was doing there, but apparently, I was hit by a car. So the nurses told me through their wincing. The paramedics came, ripped the mask off and what felt like the longest time, I was me again. I don’t feel like the old Caleb anymore. I feel I’ve outgrown him.

I don’t really know why the doctor’s called you lot, or how you can help. Are you here for my confession? My testament? Well, that’s my story. I have no idea if it will help you in your investigation.

Well…one last thing. I know it sounds weird but I’m glad the doctors tell me that the rubber is fused to my skin, it’s not going to be removed for days. I’m going to sleep like this in thick rubber. It feels right.

Statement ends.

Admittedly, there’s not much follow-up I can do on this case, and I’d be tempted to file it under the Discredited section of our archives, however the photos of Mr Sheen during his hospitalisation gives credence to the above statement. The first photo shows a hyper-stylised gas mask, vaguely canine shaped. Correction. I believe it to be that of a jackal, which appears to be connected to a breathing apparatus which corroborates Mr Sheen’s statement of being drugged.

The second photo…unsettles me. It shows Mr Sheen lying in bed with the rubber suit still on. According to the police reports I was able to chase up, the suit couldn’t be removed. It appeared to be bonded to his skin, changing him into something…not-quite human. The exposed skin had an odd sheen to it and the eyes were unfocused, staring right into the camera. It’s chilling. I’m aware our foundation records encounters with the paranormal, but I wasn’t prepared for this.

My own thoughts aside, we’ve been unable to chase Mr Sheen up for a follow-up interview as he shortly vanished after giving his statement. The trail went cold after police investigated the ruins of the Westhill Rubberworks. We were also unable to locate the basement which Mr Sheen described. Stranger, the floorplans for the factory didn’t list a sublevel, nor was one uncovered when the area was renovated into council tenements in the summer of 2018. As a precaution, we did some short interviews with a few willing tenants. There were a few complaints of local gangs of teens, but there was nothing substantial. However, the tennents insisted that we record a smell of burning rubber that comes out in the summer’s heat.

Until further information is uncovered, I’ll file this away and include copies of the police statements and photos in our digital database.

_Recording ends. _