I came for tea and ghosts.

The tea, naturally, was mine — Yorkshire, full-fat milk, none of that semi-skimmed heresy the government keeps pushing. The ghosts were optional, but in Lincolnshire they tend to come complimentary with the architecture.

The building was called the Spalding Preserves Cooperative, though the only thing it seemed to preserve these days was humidity and dread. It had closed in 1983 after what the local paper described as “an incident of unexplained stickiness.” I stood in the forecourt, coat collar up, breathing in the mingled scents of jam, rust, and unfiled health-and-safety reports.

Mrs Whitby arrived precisely when the wind started moaning in D minor. She appeared from the mist like a miracle in tweed, carrying her Tupperware of consecrated strawberry and a thermos that smelled faintly of brandy.

“Morning, Daark,” she said. “Building’s been crying again.”

“Crying,” I repeated. “As in—?”

“As in raspberry tears from the guttering. You’ll want gloves.”

Inside, the place hummed. Not electricity — memory. Machinery dreamed of movement, conveyor belts sighed like they missed being useful. A jar rolled off a shelf and smashed, releasing a scent of summer fruit and funerals.

Mrs Whitby tutted. “Residual haunting. Workers never clocked off proper.”

I took out my recorder. “And they’re still making jam?”

“Not jam,” she said darkly. “Something thicker.”

We found the first apparition by the boiling vats. A woman in a hairnet stirred an invisible pot, lips moving in repetition. The air shimmered with heat that wasn’t there. When she spoke, the words echoed backwards.

“…the batch… the batch… the batch isn’t set…”

The ghost dissolved into a fine mist of sugar. The thermometer beside her flickered from forty degrees to frost. My breath came out white.

Mrs Whitby unscrewed her jar and began daubing the floor with sacramental conserve. “Raspberry repels repetition,” she muttered. “Blueberry’s for bureaucracy.”

We moved deeper. Every wall bore handprints in jam — thousands of them — all dragging toward a single door marked PRODUCT STORAGE – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

The handle was warm.

The door opened itself.

Inside was the heart of the factory. The jam mixer stood like a cathedral organ built by lunatics. Its blades turned slowly, though no power ran to it. Something glistened inside — not fruit, not quite flesh. The churned surface reflected faces that weren’t ours.

I felt the pressure in my skull — the whispering that precedes revelation. They were still in there. Every worker who’d ever fallen into the vats, every soul that clocked in and never clocked out, stewing eternally in sugar and remorse.

Mrs Whitby crossed herself with a spoon. “Poor loves. Bound to the recipe.”

“Can you send them on?” I asked.

“Only if I can find the right preserve.”

She rummaged through her bag like a conjurer late for bingo. “Apricot for stubbornness… blackcurrant for bureaucrats… ah, here we are.”

“What’s that one?”

“Marmalade. Good for pride and citrus demons.”

She unscrewed the lid and hurled it into the vat. The jam hissed. The machinery howled — a sound like a factory whistle mixed with the scream of someone remembering how to die. The lights blazed white, then snapped off.

When the glow faded, the room was still. The blades had stopped. Only the faint smell of burnt sugar remained.

Mrs Whitby wiped her hands. “That’s that. Souls set. Batch ruined.”

I poured the last of my tea onto the floor for luck. “Will it start up again?”

“Not unless someone orders a resurrection by the tonne.”

We stepped out into the drizzle. The factory behind us was quiet now, windows blank as cooled jam.

I looked back once, just to check. For a moment, I swear I saw the silhouettes of workers behind the glass, lifting teacups in unison. A farewell, or a toast. Hard to say which.

I started the van. Mrs Whitby poured herself another thermos measure.

“Where to next, Daark?”

“Anywhere that still believes in breakfast,” I said. “Preferably one where the toast stays put.”

The rear-view mirror caught the last flicker of the factory lights — a brief, sticky glow that spelled a single word across the bricks:

THANK YOU FOR SPREADING THE WORD.

That will have to do.