Michael lived in a rickety old house right across the street from the last boy who won the golden ticket. And like all the other townspeople, he was in the crowd when they entered. But he stayed when the rest of them had departed. He waited in the sharp wind and light snow. He didn't know why.
He stayed there anyways watching the sign. The letters spelled out Wonka. When the light started fading, they flashed on. One letter at a time. The crowd grew again as the contestant winners came out one by one. The first was the chubby foreigner. He was covered from head to toe in chocolate. He had his fingers in his mouth, sucking the chocolate off them.
Then came the competitive mother-daughter duo. The girl was flipping and cartwheeling and twisting towards the exit. Afterwards came the rich family. They were covered in garbage and their clothes were ruined. Finally came the fourth family. The old looking father and the stretched, flattened son.
Michael was in a state of shock. What kind of factory was this? This factory took those people in, chewed them up, and spat them out. What was going on in this beloved factory that everyone loved? Where was the final family? Could something so bad have happened to them that they were killed? This sparked Michael's curiosity. Along with the others.
As the sky grew even darker, the crowd that had formed again had left home to their families, for dinner, for bed, for quality family time, what have you. Michael still stayed. He stayed until the moon was high in the sky. He could hear the doors opening. They closed loudly and he looked towards them. It was Willy Wonka himself!
He walked up towards the gates. He looked around and, seeing nothing, opened them. He stepped out and looked up to the stars. His lips were moving, but Michael could barely understand him. What he was hearing was, "no children. No children..." He moved closer, "Mr. Wonka?" Michael said quietly.
Wonka lowered his head and looked at the child. A smile played across his lips. Michael stopped moving closer. His eyes were maniacal, demented. He looked crazed. "Hello. How are you."
"What were you saying before, sir?"
"Nothing, don't worry about it." He moved closer to the child, waving the question away.
"But Mr. Wonka, it sounded like you said, 'no children.'"
"Why would I say something as chilling as that?"
"That's a good question, sir."
He looked back at his factory. The boy backed away as much as he could before he turned back to him, "would you like to see my factory?"
"I think I should go. I've been out all day and my parents would be worried. It was a nice talk, Mr. Wonka, sir." The boy said and walked away.
"Always a nice talk, Michael."
The boy stopped and turned back to face Wonka. He was only inches from him. Before the boy had a chance to move, Wonka had his hands around Michael's neck. He kept repeating the words, "no children, no children, no children," until the boys eyes closed.
Wonka lifted the boy into his arms and carried him back to the factory. The boy slowly woke and fought against Wonka. The last sound the boy heard was his maniacal laughter.