Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep40: Episode 40: Prison Horror Stories

Episode Date: July 29, 2021

We start this evening with ''An Empty Prison'', an original story by M59Gar, kindly shared with us at NoSleep and narrated with the author’s kind permission:  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/7qy4c2/an_empty_prison/ Next up is ''An Inmates Journal'', an original story by Pretty Mermaid 97, kindly shared with us at Dr. Creepen’s Vault:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/7qg56s/an_inmates_journal/ We finish tonight’s proceedings with ''Prison is Hell'', an original story by Sam Marduk, kindly shared with us at Dr. Creepen’s Vault:  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/5bb2lq/prison_is_hell/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. It is said that one of the many lessons that one learns in prison is that things are what they are and will be what they will be. But that makes for interest in listening this evening in our three tales of prison terror. Later on we have an inmate's journal by Pretty Mermaid 97. Prison is hell by Sam Marduk.

We start off this evening with an empty prison by M59 Go. Now, as always, a word of caution before we begin. Tonight's stories may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. The single day added onto my sentence

meant the difference between a normal jail and the unending nightmare of Pembeen at prison. I was supposed to get 364 days. That was the difference. deal. But the judge didn't like my attitude, whatever the hell that meant. So he made it 365. Boom. One year was the minimum for prison. My lawyer made a stink and a half, but he didn't do any good. It's not his fault. In fact, he's the one who's going to release this statement to the press. Or leak it online if the Guardian's Correction Group and GCG tries to get an injunction on

people have to know what happened at Pembina prison. I'm going to put it right out there and tell you that it was haunted. You think I'm joking, nuts or just lying, but you have no idea. Haunted prisons aren't anything like you imagine. Those places that advertise themselves and give people tours as sick jokes compared to the real thing. It got so bad that you can actually look up GCG's official filings for Chapter 11. That ship put them out of business on their very first prison. And right there on the briefs, using an early statute of North Dakota law from 1857, to file an insurance claim,

it says, side of Pembina prison, confirmed by governor's office and two notary publics witnessing in person, to be afflicted by the supernatural, such that continued business is impossible. It wasn't the first time the prison was closed for that reason either, but leeches kept buying it and reopening it, hoping to make a quick buck off the common man. An eye was shoved into that hellhole without knowing the history even a single bit. Don't get me wrong, the building itself wasn't so bad, especially for something straight out of 1853. It was a big stone cube that was squat, heavy and cramped,

but way less sealed off than modern prisons. We could see a lot of the cells around us. There was only one main hallway per floor, and we were close enough to pass things between the bars and have some real human interaction. Yeah, it could have been worse. There were five floors, and capacity for 500. prisoners. When I first got there, I had a bunch of cellmates, and I heard there were 2,000 guys

locked up, and I believed it. But that soon changed. I didn't talk to anyone for the first three weeks. I'd never been to a real prison before, and I was messed up over it. I didn't want to accept that I would be in that place and stuck with three other guys in myself for an entire year. The whole prison seemed to be full of feral men. The bottom floor would start screaming and hollering and panicking in the middle of the night all at once. We were on the top floor, but we could hear their screams echoing through that open, old layout, like they were right there with us. I just thought the prisoners on the bottom floor were all nuts, until the guards weren't there to wake us up the first day of my fourth week. When I woke up in my corner

Without some asshole guard banging on the bars of our cell I finally had to talk I asked one of my cellmates Dante what was going on And I'll never forget the fear in his voice As he said something that should have made us all incredibly happy The guards are all gone man The prisoners were talking quietly between the cells

And loudly between the floors and loudly between the floor through various whispers and shouts. But the most we could figure out was that something on the first floor have made them all quit in protest. Sure, there must have been crazy screaming like that during the night, right? Except, none of us could get any word

from the bottom floor. It was dead, silent down there. The guys on the second called out for hours. Someone was down there, they said, because they could hear shuffling footsteps walking around at random every so often. But whoever it was never said a single word. That was the first time Dante mentioned the crazy stories from the first floor. He muttered that he hoped none of that was true,

but when I asked about it, he just shook his head. Nothing, man. None of it ever made sense. We were a little worried as the day wore on And nobody came to let us out for breakfast And then nobody came to let us out for lunch The time we usually got to spend outside in the yard came and went And people began getting restless In the cell to our left

Dante's friend Will began telling guys to pass the word That we should all calm down and start sharing any food we'd hold away I remember asking Dante is it really that bad? Well, they've denied meals and yard time for a day or two before, he told me. But the other two guys in our cell didn't look convinced. One of them said, but not like this. They made damn sure we knew what we did.

They never just upped and left. Someone handed us pieces of crusty old bread through the bars. It was much appreciated. The new guards didn't show up for work for another full day. We got plenty of yard time that day from these new guys, but they seem more confused than us. We all watched from a distance as Will asked a guard about watered hammond. The guard shrugged.

I don't know. GCG was paying a premium for fast hires, so I signed up. What about the prisoners on the first floor? Will asked. We could still hear it. shuffling around down there. We looked on the way out to the yard, but we couldn't see anyone.

Huh? The guard frowned. Nobody in there. They all got transferred. Transferred? How's that mean? Means D.O.C. took them back. Returned to state custody since the company couldn't handle them.

Hmm, that made sense. If the floor had been full of not jobs, their North Dakota's first local private prison company hardly had the experience to handle them. But these new guys didn't even have the skills to handle us. There were half as many guards as before, and they didn't know the routines or who the dangerous ones were among us. As a result, they were distant, scared, and forceful. Well, except one guy, Kellen.

Kellen wasn't the first guard to treat us like human beings, but by then he was the only one. around. He traded jokes while in the yard, never hit us, and looked us in the eyes when he talked. He went and found some paperwork to confirm the crazies had actually been transferred, but it took three months to get that info out of GCG. By the time he told us he'd heard back, we've sort of forgotten the whole thing. Two nights later, maybe two hours after lights out, the guys on the second floor began screaming. Dante leapt up and fell on one of our cellmates by accident before shouting, Shit, shit, there must be a fire. Other guys in our row began banging on the bars and shouting for the guards,

where the uniforms charged past and headed downstairs without talking to us. We could hear them shouting orders down below, and then yelling in confusion. The prisoner's screams were clearer coming from the second and it sounded like they were terrified of something in particular and wanted help. The sounds of gates being slammed and people running reached us after about ten minutes of shouting and then it was silent. We sat in the dark waiting and listening until morning. When the new shift came in they were surprised and confused and Kellan came by to ask what had happened. We told him all we knew, but he'd shown up and found open gates and an empty second floor. There was no indication of what had happened, but he promised to check with

corporate and figure out if the absent prisoners had all been rapidly transferred again. Dante gripped the bars and made sure Kellan was looking at him. Please find out what the hell is walking around down there at night. Kellan blinked to that. I mean, I'm day shift, so I don't know what I can do, but... What do you mean? The prisoners are gone, Dante told him fiercely, but quietly. But the guys on the third floor said they still hear someone.

Maybe two or three someone's, shuffling their feet every hour or so till morning. I guess I could go look right now. Dante reached through the bars and grabbed his uniform. something which we usually got us a beating. Hear me. Do not go in there by yourself. Stay in the stairwell unless someone's with you. Kellen nodded fearfully.

It looked like he finally understood how spooked we were. He waved another guard off and Dante let go. But nothing more came of it for a whole season. The night shift had quit and more guards got hired at an even high. rate of pay. Kellan and another uniform scoped out the first two flaws, but found nothing. Dante thought it was because they were looking during the day, but he wasn't about to ask our only friend to risk himself. It was maybe three months later. Yeah, I was halfway through my sentence, and I'd taken up drawing, so I had a pen and paper. And it was when we woke up in the middle of the night,

to everyone on the third floor screaming in absolute panic. This time we were less scared during the event itself. Will offered a guard racing past 500 bucks from his commissary account if the man would come back and tell them what was going on. Dante listened intently, trying to hear individual screams from the third floor over everyone else's shouting and confusion. I wrote down any words,

thought he hurt. This is what I wrote down. Jesus Christ, killing him. God! Let us out. Coming this way! We weren't as scared when it was happening

because we'd lived through it twice before. But this time, the long-term fear was much deeper. Now we knew for sure that it was going to happen again And any prisoners that had the means began loyering up And doing everything they could to transfer to other prisoners Even if it meant worse conditions The problem was

The North Dakota prison system was already overflowing Which was the whole reason GCG got started in the first place So every guy that got out meant that it was much harder for the rest of us. Both of our cellmates transferred, giving us more space, so that was nice, but it was small consolation. Apparently, word had started to spread on the outside, and GCG's solutions, instead of paying the guards even more,

was to stop having a night shift at all, except for just one bore guy. Kellan was a bit miffed he hadn't gotten a raise out of the whole thing, but he was starting to believe us that something was going on. By then he'd been around a while, and he knew we weren't bullshitters. Too many other prisoners had told him they'd heard someone walking around the first, second and third floors, at random during the night. It was just a few steps, sometimes as many as 20, but it only was. only happened every so often, and only once had it been long enough that he thought it had stopped for good. One guy on the fourth floor said he'd heard a full run from one end of the third

hallway to the other, clear enough that he'd expected a guard to come charging up the stairwell, but nobody had appeared. He slid his wrists and got transferred out on medical leave the next day, so we took him seriously. All that was enough to get Kellan to start doing some research on the outside. He came to us in the seventh month of my sentence with a pale face. Beside us at the bars, Will asked, What's the word? Kellan seemed grim.

A lot of bullshit out there. but this place is mentioned a lot. It's been closed before, but I keep getting stonewalled when I ask for the historical documents. The thing is, I don't think the prison itself is the problem. Here, get this.

He pulled out a notepad for reference. Two Canadian priests, father's Norbert Provenche and Severumulan, visited Pembina in 1818. before it was even an official township. That was back when the Hudson's Bay Company was big around these parts. That's how long ago it was. Pembina was the biggest town in North Dakota then.

So the trading post was full. So the priest chose to sleep outside by where the Pembina River meets the Red River. The folktale has it that a vision of a rotting woman came in the night and stole Provencher's life. The two men bartered with her to split the remaining life between them, consigning both to live only 35 more years instead of the 70s Cervere had left. Cervéard got an extra month and 20 days as a gift from his friend for his sacrifice.

He paused, as if we might guess the obvious outcome. They both died 35 years later. A new Pembina prison had a horrible problem. But that didn't mean I had to believe everything. Let me guess. A month and 20 days apart. Kellan nodded. Dante snorted.

It's true, dude, Kellan said. The dates of death are right there on Wikipedia. But get this. Thirty-five years later after 1818, made their death year 1853. The year this prison was built. And the place they camped that night, by the meeting of the rivers. I didn't know what it meant, but I was beginning to feel very uneasy. It's right here, isn't it?

He was dead serious. I think there's some shit here. Ancient shit. I asked the guy I know, he's got Chipewa relatives over a Turtle Mountain. They know the history of the Red River better than anyone else. he said his uncle told him to never sleep at the meeting of the Red River and the Pembina River. He said something lives here, under the ground, and awakens with the changing of the seasons. We were silent for a beat after that.

It was folk-tale nonsense, but it was as good a theory as any. Whatever it was, it was going to come back, and it wasn't friendly. We'll talk to Kellyn for another few minutes, but Dante was silent. After he was gone, I asked him, What's wrong? He sat on one of the now unused bunks and told me, I got another five years in here, I ain't got no money for a lawyer.

Your sense will be up before it reaches us, and I'll be here alone. Will it? there was no way to be sure he'll be back in two months of the fourth floor and then three months after that for us I could get out a week before or a day too late

it doesn't seem to be exact he just looked at the floor what I mean is I do hope you get out before it comes oh I wasn't sure what else to say after that so I just sat in my corner like I always did.

It wasn't too much after that that we heard GCG was going under. The mad rush of transfers had pissed off the state and lost the company a vital contract for a second location, and investors had pulled out or something. The number of guards was cut,

then slashed. And Kellan took a pay hit to stay on as the only guy on the day shift. There's only two prisoners left on the four. fourth floor. He told the 20 of us remaining as the general week we expected it to happen approached. I feel like I should

stay late just to see what the hell is going go on down there. But the former gas I ask about it are all as terrified as hell and refused to talk. Some got violent just because I asked. It's cool, Will told him. You've got

a kid at home. Don't be here for it. The 20 of us left on the fifth floor. sat in ourselves once night fell, praying and listening. On Monday night, nothing happened. The two guys down below occasionally shouted up to us that everything was clear. On Tuesday night, nothing happened. The strain was growing, though, and we could sometimes hear them breathing rapidly down there.

I could only imagine the adrenaline rushing through. them every minute until dawn. On Wednesday night, nothing happened. Yet, something had changed in the air. The prison was much quieter now that 2,000 men had become 22, and I thought I could feel a subtle sort of heartbeat in the air, pounding against reality like it was a thin sheet of paper. Is just your imagination?

Dante whispered. None of us were willing to speak louder than that. On Thursday night, that heartbeat became a feeling of footsteps approaching from a great distance. Guys, Will shouted from his cell. You good down there? Still here, one responded from down below. But I can feel it.

It's at the door. It's knocking. What the hell's that supposed to mean? But the man below didn't respond. Friday night. That was the night it would happen. All day, the two guys on the fourth pulled and clanged on their bars, begging to be let out. Kellan was taught.

After two hours of listening to that pleading, he came up with an idea and transferred both of them up to our floor. If nobody's on floor, he said happily, then we'll all be safe, right? Out loud we agreed, but we were kidding ourselves. When the night guard showed up, he freaked and took the two men back down. He said out loud what we were all thinking. If nobody's on floor, then it'll just come right up to five and get us all. What the hell is Kellen Thiessen? We had to listen to hours of sobbing that evening.

It was the hardest trial of my life. I wanted to call out to the night guard. I wanted to ask him to get those men out of there. But if I did, I knew whatever was coming would find all of us instead. The moment it happened was like a cold hand on my shoulder. What's going on down there? Dante shouted. The man who was not sobbing called back.

It's changing. Will demanded, what's happening? Tell us. It's red. Red? It's red. What's red? Will yelled insistently. God damn it, what's red?

We stared down the hallway at the nightgoats. Who stood listening with fear. The screaming began a few seconds later. This time, only one floor above, we could clearly hear their every word. The sobbing prisoner shrieked, It's there! The man who'd been communicating with us began incoherently raging with fear against his bars. And then, strangely, he stopped.

The twenty of us clung to our bars. Unable to help? Unable to flee. Many of us cried, but we were otherwise silent, for to yell would have been to drown out the last words of the men below. But they were eerily quiet for nearly two hours. We waited in strange silence as random footsteps traversed the fourth floor every so often. What was happening?

For the first time, the victims of whatever was going on down below had chosen to be quiet instead of yelling for help. Why would that make things different? At long last, the sobbing man broke the silence. Oh my God, it's coming your way. Shut up, it'll see you, distract it, hit your bars! The sound of clanging echoed up the stairwell. The sobbing man said with terror, It knows. It knows. Jesus Christ, do something.

We were no longer silent. We echoed that sentiment, loudly and repeatedly to the guard. Do something. He just stood there, literally quaking in his boots. Will screamed at him. Snap out of it. The other guards and prisoners got away. You can too. Whatever it is, it won't follow you if you let them out and leave.

I shouted, they're going to die down there. Dante threw his shoe, and the impact finally snapped the man out of his terror. The guard ran to the stairwell and descended. The first thing we heard him say was a taken aback. Mary, Mother of Christ. The sobbing man again. Over here, for God's sake, let us out! The other prisoner wasn't talking for some reason.

We could hear his gasping terror, but that too went quiet. Then we heard a buzzer, and all the gates on four slammed loudly open. The sounds of panting, running. and someone dragging something followed. The prison went silent, and just like that, we were alone again. The formerly crowded prison now felt terrifyingly large and empty, with only 20 of us and no guards.

That night, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed from down below. I counted time as best I could, 40 minutes, then someone took three steps out of a cell and into the hallway. An hour and six minutes, someone ran ten steps along the hallway and stopped abruptly. Twenty-eight minutes, the footsteps approached the stairwell, but then turned into a cell and went silent. The thing was, whoever it was, sounded barefoot, and the starting of a cell. stopping locations didn't match. Where they ended was often nowhere near where they began again later. By the time dawn came, we were scared into motionless, terrified silence, and it took

Kellan's arrival for us to begin stirring again. With the GCG in bankruptcy court, we no longer had a night guard at all. If it came for us, there would be nobody to led us out of ourselves like everyone else. We hardly talked. We hardly ate. Each passing day was a grain of sand falling through an hourglass, marking our executions.

Our fellows began confessing to crimes they hadn't even committed, just to get transferred to Supermax out of state. The only option left. Well, that, suicide attempts. One by one, Kellan escorted or dragged guys out of our floor. 20 became 15, then 10. Then it was just me and Dante, with Will still in the cell to our left. The three of us and Helen. Four men waiting for due. We sat playing cards in the weeks leading up to it. It would be one full year for me in that place, but I could swear I'd spend a lifetime in that cell. I couldn't

think, couldn't remember life before, couldn't imagine surviving after. Every day, I prayed for a transfer to come in, but North Dakota had gotten sick of our sheds, and the judges had stopped hearing cases from Pembina prison. They didn't know there were only three of us left. Nobody knew. We contacted the media. We phoned the governor's office. We made a ruckus. That was worse than nobody knowing. It turned out nobody came. Nobody cared. Yeah, what's more. There was nobody higher up at GCG following the situation, and Kellan couldn't get anybody on the phone.

Payroll, meaning just his paycheck, was being handled by a third-party disbursement company that couldn't answer questions about ongoing proceedings. The week approached. On Monday night, nothing happened. We were like statues in ourselves. alone, waiting for a sign of the executioner's approach. When dawn came, we sighed and began moving again.

Dante asked, you get out Friday. I nodded. If things went like before, I would be released the day off. As long as I left before sundown, I would be all right. On Tuesday night, nothing happened. Two for two, just one more, just one more day. I sat through the darkness until the feeling of the prison had changed around us. The subtle heartbeat seemed to pulse against our faces and ears and eyes. It had come a day earlier in the week than the last.

last time. That morning, Will patted my arm as we both leaned out of the bars. Sorry, man. Dante just shook his head angrily. I wasn't going to get out in time. On Wednesday night, the heartbeat became the sound of footsteps approaching from some unfathomable distance. I think I stood at the bars of our cell that entire day. Fingers wrapped around metal with force to match the tension in the air and in our minds. This couldn't happen. This wouldn't happen. My lawyer would walk in and tell me he'd gotten the judge's unfair edition of an extra day removed.

One day, one goddamn day. Even if I'd spent the whole year in this prison, one day still meant life or death. Let me out. Let me the hell out, for God's sake. but nobody cared and nobody would listen. I'd like to tell you that Kellyn stayed late that night. I'd like to tell you that when the entire floor began to glow red, the hallway, the cells, the stone itself,

as whatever ungodly abomination in the earth began to wake upon the changing of the season, as distant footsteps became a traveller to the door of our minds. I'd like to tell you that Kellyn was there and hit the button and opened the gates and let us all out I'd like to tell you that I didn't see anything that I'm not permanently broken man I didn't clura the walls of my cell as it approached slowly moving a few steps every 20 to 70 minutes

I'd like to tell you that all three of us were able to run away and escape that horror upon reality, with its rotting hands and blind eyes radiating crimson light as it searched for us at random. But I can't give you a satisfying end to this story. The disbursement company fired Kellan and changed the locks on the property. According to their paperwork, all the prisoners had been moved. and they thought he'd been getting paid for guarding an empty prison. They left us in there for 11 days before the error was found, which meant 11 nights with that thing.

For 11 days, we starved. For 11 nights, we sat absolutely still, not daring to move or breathe or even look left or right. It knew where we were, generally. It stood right outside ourselves for hours, and sometimes walked right through the bars and grasped the beds around us, daring us to make even the slightest motion. When you've spent six hours staring into the blind, crimson eyes of a rotting demon, unable to even blink your eyes for fear that it will hear the air your lashes move. when you've seen what it seemed the world's it's walked

reflected in hellish red you'll understand no one cares I'd like to tell you that Kellan actually existed I'd like to tell you we had a friend among the guards and it wasn't all that

I'd like to tell you I wasn't traumatized by the hell I went through being left to rot and left to die, as nothing more than a number on some corporation's books. But no one cares. First entry. They took me while I was sleeping, which was something I must admit I hadn't taken into consideration.

As far as I knew, my location was secure. With this, I'd taken distinct precautions. but they seemed to have been all for nothing. I took a silent pride in being the centre of a media circus, displayed on every screen and billboard. There was no newspaper printed that didn't bear some bloody pseudonym assumed for me, and no one left their homes without the stories of the things I'd done playing about their heads. Of course, it was all unnecessary.

I was not a bad man, though. I must admit, taking some liberties with the definition of a bad man. People believe they were being stought by me, when, in reality, they were only living alongside me. This is a point I must stress. I never stalked anyone. I wouldn't take myself to such lows. I was indiscriminate, and perhaps that was the reason why I was so feared. People felt as if they were being stalked because being paranoid was the only safe thing to do.

And I can't begin to describe how right they were. I suppose if there was one thing that connected my victims, it was that none of them were mindful of my presence. The first, I can't hold at fault. I was, after all, an unknown. A simple man. working a simple job and driving a simple car. Who would take that as a sign of anything suspicious? Certainly not me, and I was with a one up to no good.

He wasn't a very strong man. Scrawny, not an ounce in weight, and all too easy to overpower. I'd taken him by surprise, for no better reason than a sudden. urged to do so. He didn't fight very hard, but then again how could he? Before he even knew what was going on, I cracked his head against the wall, and in his confusion I'd taken him to the ground. Then, using the weapons nature provided, finished him off. Oh, he was a terrible sight to see after I'd finished. Weak bones shattered and fair skin pierced. I had to be it. I had to be it. I had to

to take that in, what I'd done. I forgot about that simple job and that simple car, and the simple man I was simply vanished, draining away in a clotted pool of blood and dirt. I'd stared at the lad, taken in his features, everything about that scene. It all stuck and clung, a my asthma of felt that polluted my brain, though I didn't want it gone. I felt as if my simplicity was a lie, and this young man before me was a symbol of truth. I only killed twice more after him. Another man completely different to the first in all aspects, different race, class, and so on. And a woman, though I don't remember much about the second man. Perhaps it was this, in the mere compulsion that drove me to murder that got me thrown in here.

I'd found the woman on the street one night. She'd had too much to drink and was vomiting into a bush. Her friends, who saw her in this state, laughed and walked back to their party. I then did something I'd never done before, which was to hold back her hair. Makes me sound quite the gentleman, doesn't it? There was something about its faint softness, however, that awoke in me again that simple urge. It was in much the same fashion as the first that I disposed of her,

knocking her to the ground and allowing my fists to send her on. She didn't thrill me as much as the first. She flailed too much, and I found that irritating. I'd left her there, not bothering to observe the scene. I didn't kill again, and it was during this period that the police hunted for me relentlessly, and news of a murderer was broadcast. It wasn't a conscious decision to lay low at first, but when the urges took me again, I forced myself to repress them,

fearing that another murder would provide the police what clues they needed to find me. These urges soon became increasingly frequent, and I was on the verge of giving in when I was taken. I was not given a trial, or at least, I was given one I wasn't present for, or perhaps one that I'd erased from memory. Either way, dwelling upon it won't do me any good in here. I was told later that the trial had ended with my being found guilty, but mentally ill, and I would be spending my sentencing. a secure psychiatric facility sounded a damn sight more interesting than prison. I arrived wrapped in a white straitjacket and was hauled into the building by two young men with more muscles than brains. They were barely self-aware enough to be kept from being thrown in here with me.

At first, I noticed two expressions commonly carried through those halls. dumbfoundedness was the first one, a result, I assume, of the medication, though indifference was the main one. Indifference was carried by the staff. A blank expression with the eyes held somewhere above the head so as to avoid context. This look came my way quite often. However, I knew that would fade. The doctor would soon have other things to worry them. about than me. As for the patients, well, they would tend to be dumbfounded somewhere else.

A third, scrawny a man then led us through the wards of slow inmates until we came to where they kept the distinctly more interesting people. Oh, how I would have loved to sit and speak deeply with just one of those inmates. It excited me to think that behind each one of those locked doors was a man with as much to say as myself, though I suppose it's logical to keep us separate. If they say a prison is a college of crime, then I can only imagine what they must say about an asylum. I was escorted to my ward, if that's the correct word for it. A simple iron-wrought bed set in one corner of four white walls, and an equally simple bedside table. Next came a long lecture from the scrawnier man with regards to my situation and treatment,

detailing the events which led me here with a disdainfully bored expression, an almost misted over look to his eyes. To be honest, I remember myself snapping. I know exactly why I'm in here and what you're going to do to cure me. so you may as well fuck off and leave me alone. I was expecting this to take him by surprise,

hoping for him to become a flustered mess. Instead, he stared at me impassively, scribbled a few notes on a clipboard and waited for me to sit down. Our chief medical officer believes that in cases like yours, therapeutic writing, along with a series of medications, can provide satisfying results.

He mumbled and placed the cheap notebook in which I now write on the bed. He then got up and left me in peace. For the first few days, I only used this journal for simple doodling. It was taken from me each night and returned to me in the morning, usually hand delivered by a pretty young nurse. She alone is kind. A welcoming grace, I'd say. She looks me in the eyes and she speaks.

smiles, which, alone, is an experience I haven't felt since. Well, a long time ago, I find myself anticipating her arrival. Each morning I take my pills calmly, and we chat. The subjects vary from the vague, too, well, what I consider to be quite personal. I know she lives with her family not far from here, where exactly she wouldn't say, and that this is her first real. job. Other than that, I have no factual details about her, though she certainly has a better bedside manner than most of the dim staff I'm forced to deal with. No matter. My nurse tends to me. Second entry. Today, I was allowed to visit our very humble library. It appears that the good doctor also believes in therapeutic reading, which is apparent at a glance. I spent all afternoon

stalking the bookshelves and came out with nothing more exciting than a book on the care of exotic carp. I fail to see the good doctor's logic. He lets a man as exciting as myself write down every fleeting thought, and yet the books in his library are as exciting as watching an old woman knit. This place gives me a headache. I may as well just reread my journal. I find I can be an incredibly interesting person when there's nothing better to have. I was then quite surprised by a visit from the good doctor himself.

It was the second time I'd actually laid eyes on the man, and, having not been prepared for his sudden arrival, I gawked at him and, without meaning to, made it look as though I belonged in here. He then formally sat on my bed and laid a slim folder next to him. He had a kind face. That was something I hadn't observed before. Rather boyish in its way, with the slightest hint of a smile ever present.

He shuffled through a few papers and then he told me how happy he was. Allegedly I was what he referred to as a model, patient. I was spoken of with high regards by my nurse and the staff who had the good fortune of meeting me were impressed, albeit somewhat surprised by my cooperation. He then requested to look over my journal, though I could tell this was for show, the ums and ahs, attempting to hide a rather poor display of a man pretending to read. Of course, he'd see him. He'd see him. He'd see a, its content before. There was no real need to appear to read it in front of me, except for to comment on how little I've written and how he'd like me to do it more often. There was then some talk about

my medication, as there generally is whenever doctors are involved, and then he left with a courteous handshake. I was visited again by my nurse, who seemed to go prettier with each passing night. She carried with her a usual tray, along with its assortment of pills, including two newer, harder to swallow ones. We then got to our usual chatting, which lasted until she realized there was somewhere, as she put it, not better, but where she was needed more. Then she too curtly left me to my own devices. Third entry. Unbelievable.

Apparently, my dear young nurse is not. as attentive as she made out. Or maybe it is the hospital itself that refuses to let her see me. The day after my last entry, I was awoken by some fat gorilla of a woman who ripped the sheets from my bed and forced me into a lukewarm bath, where I was scrubbed down like a filthy dog. Where is my nurse? My own voice was a whimper, a surprisingly pathetic side effect, I presume, of her presence. I'm your nurse now. Quit your whimpering.

She spoke in a grunt, befitting of her piggy face. The hulking wench dragged me back to my cell, and there I was left without so much as a sympathetic word. For a while,

I just stared at the door. The memory of her touch made me cringe and wretch. Who was this woman? And why was she bathing me? I'd never had to be bathed in my entire time here. I was always cooperative. Why did it feel like punishment?

And the question that burned itself most in my mind, where was my nurse? Perhaps the fat pig ate her. I remember thinking and laughing at myself. But not in malice. I felt some kind of childish glee. the thought of a giant pig in a nurse's uniform made me cackle, made me cry until my lungs burned through lack of breath and my ribs ached.

My childish glee, I'm sad to say, was brutally interrupted by a spiteful adult realization. This was something I shouldn't find funny, comical perhaps, but not, on my knees gasping through bursts of cackling funny. had I perhaps regressed, retained a child's sense of humour. Not being a psychological expert, I could only presume that lack of worthwhile stimulation could take a toll on my mental well-being. I heard the fat nurse's voice from behind my door, complaining to some mumbled voice about bringing me my medicine.

Once again, realization dawned upon me. Why would I, a perfectly healthy man, require medicating? The only possibility had to be that it was to addle the brain, stir what they believed and unfocused mass of thoughts and radical emotions into something more controllable, ultimately simpler. But my mind had focus. They had nearly robbed me of it, but now I shall cover my sanity in this insane place. My mind will remain ever my own.

The door was unlocked. I gasped as she fumbled in. In her hands was a small bag filled with pills. The door shut behind her. She seemed tall, taller than I remembered. Her arms thicker, more muscles. My heart raced. It beat loudly in my ears and with each slow step,

slow step this nurse took towards me. It seemed to build louder and quicker. She threw the bag of medicine at me. Take your meds. Each word was a cannon blast in my ears that subsided to a numb ringing. My eyes watered. I saw the nurse's disgusted face through blurred eyes. I remember her saying something spiteful, and then something snapped. I rushed her, knocking her to the floor, and, before I knew what I was doing, I'd sunken my teeth into her flesh. I must confess I had not focused as much on the details as I would have preferred,

but I cannot describe what satisfaction came from her piggy squeals, nor, for that matter, what it's like to lose oneself completely in another's suffering. I was liberated, empowered. The confines of myself were at last my domain, and I was myself again. I only came to my senses when I was dragged away from this nurse. There was time enough to savour the taste of her blood, before I was drugged, and a dark fog clouded my vision. Fourth entry.

Finally, I have been returned to my ward, and my journal has at long last been returned to me. me. It seemed a quaint gesture at first, but being apart from it for so long has proven its use as a therapeutic tool. I had to humiliate myself and beg to have it back. I felt like a dog doing tricks for treats. As I came into this place, my mind was sharp and my thoughts organized, though my actions may have contradicted the fact. But this place drives me further and further towards the barbarism of the man they perceived. Convinced that the medication is designed to make me slow,

I've been refusing to take it which, in itself, is challenging enough to occupy my mind. At first, I decided there were two ways in which this could be accomplished. Silent or blatant refusal. Having pondered it for no significant amount of time, I came to the conclusion that I was not the sort to sneak about and that blatant refusal was more my cup of tea. I took large amounts of satisfaction at the sight of those strange nurses trying to pry my mouth

open and it was only under thread of lobotomy from the good doctor himself that I gave in. I feel the medication continuing to take its toll on me. There is now a tremble in my left hand that I am convinced was not there before. though every member of staff I've interrogated tells me my hands have trembled for as long as they've known me. Nothing but bullshit. Too many times now, I've caught myself laughing or weeping over nothing, giving rise to vast anger at this realization. It's not helped by the fact that my nurse still not visited me, and after I was certain she would come when she heard of my recent misgivings.

It was, I'll admit, something to focus on, her returning. Though certainly no God-fearing man, I can't help but feel that praying for her return would be the best thing to do. Well, it certainly seems to be the only thing left for me. Not one staff member has given me a decent response as to her whereabouts, and when asked to relay a message, they simply say, she thinks it's cute you miss her needless to say

this pisses me off but it's an anger I am willing to swallow I know that no hissy fit will bring her back end though it is equally true that good behaviour will prove just as effective anything conceived as bad behaviour would only lead to further punishments perhaps if she doesn't return soon I will act out again

Oh, but that will be very petty of me indeed. Fifth entry. There has been yet another space of time between this entry and the last. I've been moping, I'm told. The air in here grows stale, and I'm growing tired of my own company, and even more so of the constant interruptions. The good doctor keeps visiting me. Each time he looks over my journal and smiles.

Every time my dose is increased and has now gotten to the point that they've started making me ill. A few times when he's visited, he's been unable to read my journal as I have only screamed and cried at him, clutching it to my chest like a baby. On the odd occasion the door was left open and I ran. I only made it as far as the hall, but compared to the cramped cell I'd been living in, It felt so open. I felt like I could breathe. I stretched my arms out wide and cackled when I saw the wall was more than a few steps away.

Of course, I was taken back to myself. The good doctor smiling and taking me by the hand. I didn't want to go back, but there was something in his voice that I felt I couldn't disagree with, and I let him lead me. That night, I slumped into my bed, and with the memory of the hall, I happily went to sleep.

Sixth entry. At last, there is news from my nurse. I could barely contain myself on hearing, and even now I tremble with excitement. As it happens, my nurse was unnoticeably pregnant, which in-hand of itself came as rather a surprise, for she'd never cared to mention a lover to me. Though, through what unfortunate circumstance I was not informed. I learned that she lost her baby. She took a leave of absence for the sake of her health,

understandably, and is now to return in a few days. Since she left, the days have blended into one, but now I have been promised her return, I feel every second cruise by. I am too excited to write any more today. It's been otherwise uneventful. Seventh entry, for the first time and as far as I can remember, I feel remorse.

A sickening combination of regret and sadness on another's behalf. Today, I did a very bad thing. Once again I had to beg for my journal's return. This time, however, I feel its confiscation was justified. I have to sit still. Every moment causes my ribs to flare with pain. I've done a very bad thing. Once again, countless weeks of pass since I last wrote in this journal,

and once again I was left to think upon what I did. I had taken my pills that morning, and I can remember that in lieu of the usual heavy sadness that I had come to associate with my medication, I experienced overwhelming happiness, and I was set into uncontrollable fits of childish laughter. It was only when I remembered this feeling from the day I assaulted the piggish nurse, that I record my earliest suspicions. I was stupid for letting them go unchecked, and weak. for allowing the doctors to coerce me into taking them.

Instantly, a combination of nervousness and stress raked my gut and twisted until I felt sick. I wrung myself ragged at that point, pacing my ward for hours, feeling a constant blend of worry and excitement, followed by the irrational euphoric laughter. I didn't want to hurt my nurse, yet with every dragging second,

I could feel my hold over my own, action slipping as another thought for control. I knew she would be here soon, and once again my heart beat loudly in my ears as I sat and waited for her. At last voices approached my door, and it was as if time stiffened. There came footsteps that echoed like steady cannon fire, and a morbid rattling of chains that cut through my skull as the key was turned and clunked in its lock. Though I know that in reality the door was flung open and my nurse burst into the room expecting me to welcome her. In my eyes, I saw the door slowly creak open and my nurse stalk into the room. There was a pulsing sensation behind my eyes and it was as if somebody rapidly flicked the

lights on and off. One moment I saw my nurse in the room was as white and glaring. as ever, and the next I saw some haggard crone bent over and extending a gnar-claw of a hand towards me. The flashes began to pulse quicker. I could not discern reality from hallucination. I bit down upon my lips, and blood flowed freely into my mouth. I looked up to see the gnarled talon above me, and I cried out. The crone's arms enshrouded me, and I allowed this. straight-thinking part of my brain to slip and my body to lash out wildly. I recall my fist catching her

jaw with some force, knocking her to the ground. In my intoxicated state, I leaped on top of her like some savage, and I began to cause her as much harm as I could. It wasn't like the last time where I'd only sunk my teeth into flesh. This time I hammered blows upon her jaw until it cracked and clawed at her face until it shred. I ripped her hair from her scalp, and I tried to gouge her eyes from her head. Still, reality and hallucination were blurred into one indiscernible mess, and incredible waves of euphoria clenched at my guts. The blood on my hands record memories of when I was a free man, and the sheer sense of once again living awoke me to how dead my life had become. I felt no shame as the guards ripped me off her, only a numb satisfaction as their

boots broke my ribs. For punishment, there was nothing they could do save for confiscate my journal, and once again confined me to solitary. It was the good doctor himself who returned my journal to me, though I was certain they would deem it unwise to give me anything as pointy as a pencil. It would be an exaggeration to say that the guards received harsher punishments than I did as expected, with no family to sue them and having no real connection to the outside world. It's a wonder that I'm not forgotten. They now accompany every nurse that enters my room, and the cocky arrogance they now carry is one that is impossible to miss.

From time to time I see my nurse walking the holes. Her face now artistically scarred Though she doesn't visit me anymore She refuses to even look at my door Each time she passes however I find myself crying And I whisper Sorry

Softly as she passes It's not enough I know But it's the only thing I can do Eighth entry After that incident The routine turned to normal, as it always does. The staff continued to try to take my journal to read. However, I've decided to be difficult and now place it instead in a hole in the mattress

I managed to make by prying open a smaller hole worn in by use. I then flip the mattress over so as to cover my hiding place. Its disappearance has them stumped. The mattress would be an obvious hiding place, but the condition would be an obvious hiding place, but the condition of my ribs removes it from all logical thoughts. Successfully hiding it is a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. The guards now randomly searched my room, hoping to catch me writing,

though I am able to easily work around their thick-headed tactics. At one point it began to frustrate them, and upon my daring request for a new pencil, they damaged my ribs still further. Again, they receive little to no punishment. Even as I write, my ribs flare and my breathing is harsh. No doctor has been sent for me. Perhaps they don't realize my condition, but I will not allow them to see it.

I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they have physically broken me. For as long as I hide my pain, the satisfaction is mine. I am in control of how they perceive me, and in that control, I'll... take my freedom. My chest grows tight. It's hurt since they first broke my ribs, and the act of breathing that at one point in time was easy is now a great effort. My hand, that was once steady, has dimmed and weakened, causing my writing to fade from its usual scribbles to barely legible lines. I am tired. I don't remember how long I've been here. and that makes me feel so incredibly small.

As to whether or not this is a testament of my weakness or a sign of their strength, I'm unsure. Either way, they've succeeded. My body is ruined, and even now I am still coughing blood. The only thing in this place that I came close to loving, I was forced to destroy. Perhaps then, this will be my last entry. I would return this book to its hiding place, but I'm afraid the effort of moving the mattress is beyond me.

As I sit here, my vision fades, and my breath grows short. With blood running from my lips and staining my clothes, I feel it would be best if I just went to sleep. I hate it here. Granted, I deserve it. I'm currently locked down behind massive concrete walls and solid steel doors in a maximum security penitentiary. I was locked up for what feels like a lifetime ago now. I earned it. I did.

Every second I rot here is justice, but that doesn't change the fact that I hate it. It's cold here. I have a single concrete cotton toilet. My clothes itch and are too thin to keep any. chills out. The walls are grey with a sickly green tint due to the dull swamp-like tile that sends a grossly coloured glow into the room reflecting the buzzing fluorescent light above me. The door is thick and unmoving. They paint it the same shade of sickly green as the floor. I assume it's lead-based to save on cost. Maybe if I lick it

enough time. Well, maybe I can kill enough brain cells. to forget I'm here. I have no roommate, as many don't, who are perceived as extreme risks. Thankfully, I can still have some time outside and shout without being entirely supervised, more than I can say for many in here. My only commodity is my toilet paper and my journal. I earn the journal through much work and good behavior. The pencil I write with is dull and has no eraser.

like a golfer would use to keep scorecuts. I'm allowed four hours per day with it, between breakfast and lunch. I receive the journal and pencil with my meal, and return it in kind. If the pencil has any pieces missing, or there are any extensive tears in the pages, then I will lose it for the following day. And so I comply. I comply so I may have some mild comfort in this concrete cage in which I slowly die. Again, I definitely earned it. But that doesn't change the fact that prison is hell.

I earned my place here because I killed people. I killed many people. I killed 20 people to be exact. This is the first time I've actually written that death. I beat the cannibals number. which for some reason gave me a sense of accomplishment. However, what gave me more satisfaction was the evenness of the number. 20. 20. 20. 20.

2.0. 2.0. 2.0. 2.0. 20. 20. even and smooth my compulsion made it this way twenty one would have made getting arrested a living hell fifteen would have been okay but twenty was much cleaner increments of five always increments of five

sometimes during a shopping trip i would grab a stick of gum so as to have twenty or ten or thirty items even. However, in the case of the killings, it was much more intense. The problem was the itch I felt in between. I was a gnawing pain in my mind from one to four and six to nine. The itch was not as bad during fives, but tens were the best. However, that number will eventually attract attention. The number is partially what got me caught, but I had to scratch the itch, so to speak. It made me empathise with vampires in the old horror stories, the sensation of aching thirst that cannot be quenched. It is nightmarish. The same remained true for my age, 40.

I finished at 40, which made me content. I hated not having any... even age. I could force down the bad feelings when my age ended in fives, or even numbers, but I always had bad years with ones, three, sevens, and nines. I digress. I understand it is abnormal behavior, but it's a compulsion. I have it manageable so that most would never notice in a day-to-day routine. I have to reminisce on these pages because I have no way of going. back. It started many years ago and the urge only grew from there. The first time I killed was interesting. I should have felt the need to immediately kill again as I did in later

years but I didn't. They say mental illness worsens with age. I guess that's what kept me from acting again so soon but I'm not sure. The first time I killed was pretty lackluster. I was walking home from school through the woods where very few kids were bold enough to cross. While walking, I stumbled upon a man. He was clearly injured, and even at the age of 12, I knew he had little time left. He sat, holding his side, panting in laboured breaths. He didn't see me yet. From my vantage point I could see a long, white bone jutting from his leg. which tells me the pain from what his ribs were doing was worse than that of a broken leg. Well, that he was just in shock.

Far above this section of woods was a road, and from what I could see, a vehicle burst through the railing. The wrecked vehicle, a 69 Chevy C-20 truck, lay decimated some 40 feet below the roadway in the brush and rocks. I remember this truck, because I wound up purchasing one many, many years. years later, in a secret nostalgia for myself. Either way, the driver had pulled himself from the wreckage and crawled in agony upwards of fifty feet to the nearest tree, where his strength was slowly failing him. I remember seeing a large shard of metal, which had been ripped from the side of the truck, and picking it up. I walked slowly to the man, who reached pitifully towards me for help. I slowly he shoved the sharp edge of the metal into the man's throat and watched as blood began to spurt from the wound

and his mouth. He gargled like a drowning sow on his own blood, and after a time he ceased all movement, forever. It was a rush of which I cannot explain. The excitement of ending a human life is next to none. I was content for a fleeting moment. I stared at the body for some time before taking a bloody shred of his pant leg that was hanging by a thread. I just wanted to have a keepsake. That was my first kill. I was never caught nor even suspected. Growing up in the mountains of the South allowed much privacy, and it allowed me to get away with murder.

As time grew, so did the feeling of power and accomplishment. I felt like God. No one even knew I was the way I was. I would never be a suspect because I knew to hide. I hid well because I knew how to hide. From the time I was a boy, I knew how to blend in. Sometimes it was a challenge because of my appearance, but I learned a simple skill, how to hide in plain signs.

I was able to work hard in the background. I made good grades and maintained very few close friendships throughout school, so no one would discover anything about me. However, I made sure everyone had a nice thing to say about me, carrying groceries, helping kids with studying, always using manners. I graduated in the upper ranks of my class and soon attended the local college. After I'd earned a degree in business, I worked hard where I could and raised enough money to buy my own rig. I worked by riding the highways as a trucker for years and eventually bought two more rigs.

By 35, I was a respectable business owner in my old town, with a dispatch and a few drivers. I obviously still drove, even as the owner, because it kept me close to my only real passion. I hid well in plain sight because white people love a black man In a town of 90% white and 10% other I learned to blend despite being a minority Learn to talk like them Learn to walk like them And you can manipulate them into whatever you want

I hate them Not white people All people My mother died shortly after I graduated high school from heart failure, and I felt liberated, for I held her opinion highly. Her opinions often kept me in line and respectable. When she died, I was free to pursue my own interests. My father, while a good man in his own right, never held much weight in my actions. So I walked the path I chose for myself, despite what his feelings may be. Either way, I dwindled for some time after the first murder.

The urge slowly grew. By high school I kept my eyes peeled for another opportunity to snuff out of life. Finally, that day came. The second time I murdered was equally uninspiring. I found myself at a graduation party, and the whole senior class was drinking heavily. All except me, that is. We were at the home of a wealthier student who had maintained a spotless record through both junior high and high school and wanted to go out in a way where she could get out of her proverbial box.

I learned two things that evening. The first, that a well-mannered, well-educated young lady, was no different than anyone else in regards to having a darker side. She wanted to be remembered for a party. not her good grades not her generous deeds not her modest manner or dress but a party

yes everyone has a dark side in some way this was the first thing I learned the second was that if everyone is drunk and dancing on the roof you could bump a certain lady discreetly enough to send her

three stories down into the concrete and make it look like an accident She landed with a smack that can only be replicated in my dreams. This was the first time I was aroused by her killing. I'm not sure why. She was in a two-piece, which I assume her parents knew nothing about, and her skin was pale and smooth. Her deep brown hair flowed past her shoulders,

and the look of utter confusion and terror in the face of innocence was priceless. Blood pulled from her head and seeped into her nearby swimming pool. I fancied her, you could say, but only because she represented something that does not exist. Human, innocence. When her skull cracked hard against the pavement, I was instantly excited. I had to sneak away to handle it,

and steal a memento from the girl's room. Meanwhile, the remaining partygoers descended into madness, trying to repair a situation that was far beyond broken. The chaos I caused that night again resurfaced my deep sense of accomplishment that only comes from death. This was the second time I killed, 18 years of age. By the time I hit my stride, I stood six. foot two and 260 pounds. I'd always enjoyed lifting weights and working towards my overall health. Yes, a fat predator is a bad predator. I maintained this level of fitness for most my adult life. I had to in order to pursue my passion. Of course, things would have a way of catching up with me.

I was incarcerated with an unfortunate mountain of evidence. I wouldn't say I covered every base perfectly to ensure not getting caught, but I felt like I was careful enough. I guess not in hindsight. I remember the day I was arrested. I'd turned 40 the month prior, I was on the road delivering a shipment of plywood. I was behind the wheel of my rig in rural allies.

I was taking a back road because I enjoy the scenery, and when you're the boss, you can set your own schedule. At this point, I'd killed 19 people, and the itch was present. I would have to rub the back of my neck when I thought about it. It needed to be scratched. I needed to take care of it. And that's when I saw her. Miles from any structure or any living, person was a broken-down baby blue Volkswagen beetle. The emergency lights were flashing and a woman

was looking into her engine compartment. The hide of my truck allowed me to scan both her car and the area surrounding us. It was tall, uncut grass and trees, covered in utter blackness due to the overcast night. There was no one for miles and miles. we could be alone together. I pulled in behind her with my low lights so as not to scare her. When I stepped out of the truck, I addressed her. Pardon me, ma'am, I said calmly. I know how to disarm.

I've worked on my speaking voice for years in order to betray their security into my hands. Are you all right? She stepped out from behind her hood. and I saw her in better light. She was a young Hispanic woman. Her clothes were tattered, but I think that was intentional. She had silky dark hair to her shoulders

and black librarian glasses. She was pretty, which was a bonus for me. Consider it like a dinner. You're going to get your meal, but when it includes dessert, then it's all the better. I also knew she could complete this cycle.

She could be the 20th and I could rest. Best yet, she was petite, so there would be little fight. I think the engine shut, she said in a desperation that these dark woods certainly played well into. She just wanted to get out of danger. Little did she know. I can give you a ride. I own this company so I can make the time. I didn't want to sound too presumptuous, but I knew by making myself a manager it would remove the creepy truck driver mentality. I don't know. I promise, I edged in my best zippity-dudah voice, I'll take you straight into town and we can find you a phone. My wife will kill me if I let a young lady stay stranded in the woods.

I wasn't married, but that's another way of disson. harming her. Her spouse always makes a man less dangerous, or again, so she thought. Okay, she said, with her fear betraying her skepticism, thank you. I'll get the door for you. As she walked to the passenger side, I held the door open for her. As she took her first step up, I grabbed her ankle and pulled her straight down with as much force as I could manage. Her jaw connected with the studded metal stairs full force. I know some teeth were broken by the crunch that emanated from her skull. She fell limp to the dirt as I lifted her onto my shoulder.

She didn't stir long enough for me to grab a large socket wrench from my rig. I could feel the warm blood from her mouth pouring down my shoulder. I carried her into the tall grass, just out of sight. We made love then. I'd made love before to some, but this was special. She was the twentieth. She would complete the need. Halfway through, she began to wake and struggle,

and from there I had to act. I took the socket wrench and began to hit her. She struggled to scream due to her shattered jaw. I hit her in her pretty face, over and over, and over. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. When I had finished on all fronts, I took her wallet from her jeans off beside us. Hannah, I believe her name was. I took her glasses as they'd fallen off when her face collided with my truck

and avoided the wrath of the socket wrench. They had her name engraved inside the temple. I drove, leaving the scene entirely. I had to re-enter the highway sometime later and saw lights in my mirror. I'd been stopped before, once even with a body in the back, so I wasn't worried. The officer walked to the side and called me out. You Williams? he asked with an unreadable demeanor. Yes, sir, I answered coolly, holding my ID and paperwork for the truck and the delivery.

He then spoke into his radio. Yep, we found him. Officer, what's this up? I was cut short. Sir, please turn around and place your hands behind your back. Why? I demanded. I was not about to be cuffed and restrained for no good reason. He then turned me violently to my truck and slapped cuffs around my wrists.

From there, he sat me on the pavement and called for backup. When other officers arrived, one finally noticed the blood on my back. They then found the glasses. They then found the poorly wiped down socket wrench. They then received word of a brutal mutilation several towns over. They'd stopped me initially because one of my drivers was caught with a brick of marijuana, and they wanted to stop all trucks from my dispatch to make sure we were legitimate. It'd be funny if it weren't so infuriating.

I was brought down on a technicality. Well, my run lasted from 12 to 40. I was undetected for that entire time. I changed my ammo. I killed strangers only. I was so careful. The technicality was the only thing that could have done this. My simple home was turned about until they found my treasure box, a shoebox of souvenirs and news clippings.

From there, it was easy to put me at every single murder. Every homeless person stabbed to death in cities. Every transient prostitute with their heads missing. Every unsupervised child in crowded streets. I was linked to them all. Now, one may ask, Why would you be so stupid as to keep mementos? To that I would say, I had to.

It was my passion and the only thing that gave me meaning. I had to keep something around. They were the only memories I could have of those times. Like I first wrote, I deserve to be in prison. But I don't regret in the slightest what I've done. The trial was grueling and irritating. Since I killed across state lines, there were arguments as to where to have my trial, and it became a federal issue, which only meant more bureaucracy. My lawyer explained many of the killings would be circumstantial at best, but just as many have my now connected DNA to the scene and are going to be nearly impossible to deny.

I decided to throw in the towel. The media was out for blood. The public was out for blood. and the jury was out for blood. I had my fill, so now it was time to pay the favour forward. There was no way to avoid a life sentence, so I may as well come clean and get the chance to regale the tales of my exploits to a room of terrified jurors and family members burning with hatred. Despite the difficulties of finding some evidence of murders,

I was still convicted for 18 of the 20. however I was punished for them all regardless the day of sentencing I stood still and stoic before the judge I could feel the eyes of all those present attempting to sear me but failing the judge looked down at me and rambled on about my cruelties and resentment for man the entire time he droned I stood with the thought that the death penalty was illegal in this state It was utterly satisfying to know the uproarious crowds calling for my head when the law wouldn't allow it.

I snapped out of it when he got to the sentence. Seeing as how the death penalty is illegal in this state, I can only do the most with that in light. I hereby sends you to one thousand and one life sentences. He was being melodramatic. Not in history had there been such an absurd. sentence. What's worse? The number was uneven. Meaning the rest of my life I would have to say one thousand and one when discussing my sentence. He knew this. My demeanour slightly shaken. I asked the judge, why one thousand one? The courtroom was silent. The families,

friends and juries looked at me with contempt. But that didn't matter then, even less now. The judge leaned over his podium. He smiled with the smugness that still boils my blood, and he calmly replied, To torment you. That's how I got where I am now. I don't interact with the other inmates or the guards.

I just mind my business as best I can. I don't like to think about my sentence because it makes me itch. Similar to when you haven't paid a certain bill, but don't have the funds. It's a wincing mental discomfort. I write the rest of this in a testament to what happened yesterday, in hopes it reaches someone on the outside. My day started normally. A loud bell rang and I stood to my feet. From there my door opened and I walked to the shower facility.

I tried to find myself at the end of the line so as to get the most time out of myself. I also like my privacy. The inmates here are insufferable. They're uneducated criminals who would have no life outside of these walls. My fellow black inmates gave me hell for being crazy since African American serial killers are considered such an... abnormality. The other races tended to stay to themselves, minus a few Aryan brotherhood members casting the occasional slur my direction. I entered the shower as normal, but I felt an innate

sense of dread that I don't know how to describe. I just felt unpleasant. I felt watched and alone at the same time. I felt completely hopeless. and near despair. I quickly finished my shower and left the facility. The halls were quiet and the stationary guard was not at his post in front of myself. I was alone in this hallway. Suddenly, I felt a large hand grip my shoulder and order me forward. The next thing I knew I was being escorted to the warden's office. I was somewhat stunned, but complied. I walked the tight in close halls until I reached the last room on the right. Inside was totally dark apart from a dim lamp illuminating a desk. The hand shoved me in and slammed the door behind me. I saw the silhouette

of warden, and he beckoned me to sit. I sat across from him in uncomfortable silence. He didn't move, and neither did I. I would force him to make the first move. After what felt like an eternity he spoke up. Let's go over your file. His voice carried a mild southern accent spirpled in. I didn't respond.

He gave no indication as to why so I would bide my time. From here I will paraphrase what was said as my memory can't perfectly recreate the entire conversation. Count one, confessed, not convicted.

Man falls off cliff, as you assist him in passing. You were 12, so it wasn't included in your final file, but it warrants mentioning. Count two. Confessed, convicted. You confessed to shoving a young woman off a roof, and then robbing her home of a trophy.

You were 18. Count three. Confessed, convicted. Homeless man near your college. You stabbed him and cut out a two. You were 20. Count four. Convassed, not convicted. You claimed to have shut a prostitute in Texas. The souvenir you took could not link you to the crime, and she had no family. You were 24. Not convicted. But you know what you did. Counts five through nine. Confessed, convicted on all counts.

You killed five lot lizards before changing your M-O. That was smart. They were all strangled and you kept a lock of hair. Left them on the highway. Count ten. Confessed, convicted. You took a lost 12-year-old and drowned him. You kept his retainer.

You were doing well in life by this point. But murder is still cold. Didn't it? Count 11. Confessed. Convicted. This one was special, wasn't she? That guest station employee, you stalked for a while. Followed her home and broke in. Took your time and did it right. She broke your perfect streak, and you were going to make her pay right. Kept her locket as a token of your affection. Count 12. Confessed. Convests. Convin. You took a young man from your local club in Missouri.

Strangled him the moment the door was closed. Chopped him up and kept his teeth. Counts 13 through 17. Confessed, convicted on all counts. The hitchhiker phase. Here it seems you just wanted to close the gap. You got sloppy. Left a lot of evidence behind.

I guess because they were vaguely. it wouldn't have mattered. Count 18. Convest, convicted. You killed a housewife in Florida. You were on vacation at the time. You spotted her and just had to do something. Waiting until her husband left and had yourself a time.

Another rape and strangling. You took her blood-soaked necklace. Count 19. Convest, convicted. You saw a jogger one morning and followed in your truck. When you knew their routine, you waited in the bushes until he passed. You killed him with a hammer and took one of his shoes. Count 20.

Convests, convicted. The one that brought you down. You couldn't resist him. You were too careless, too excited. and now you're here. You took her glasses and bashed her head in and assaulted her. He took a deep breath and his outline sat back. Do you know what they call you?

He asked me incredulously. I was livid. He completely bastardized my work. I had done so much and he swept over it like an obituary column. I glared at him in the dark before answering. The scavenger hunt killer. God, I hated that name. They donned me the scavenger hunt killer because my murders spent so far

and I collected odd disconnected items. Again, my works and efforts were reduced to a joke. It still makes me sick. The warden spoke up again. Are you sorry? I sat for a moment before responding. Would it matter? He chuckled in a deep throaty laugh.

No, he said settling in. I guess it wouldn't. He continued. I don't get it, really. You're a highly intelligent, healthy and well-spoken man. Why on earth would you want to throw that away? I sat in angry silence. I refused to give this man the satisfaction of an answer.

Do you believe in God? The warden asked. His tone now changed. I chewed my tongue before responding. No. Pity, he said lackadaisically, as if my response didn't really matter. That'd make what I'm about to tell you much better.

I waited for him to continue. Your sentence is being commuted. I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Really? Yes. He sat, still shadowed, but I knew he was smirking. What does that have to do with God? I knew I should have had much more important questions to ask in that moment, but I was curious.

I assumed he meant I should be thankful. Well, he said, his voice trailing. That would make the next part easier. You passed away this morning, son. Before I could respond, his hand tossed a few photos in front of me. It was me. I lay covered in blood on the shower floor. I'd been stabbed from the looks of it.

Yeah, the warden, or who I thought was the warden, spoke up. Some Aryan fellow wanted to prove his might by stabbing a serial killer to death in the shower. didn't work though since he was caught and will most likely be in solitary until he does irreparable damage if that's some comfort i stared at him i stared at the photographs i simply could not accept it this is absurd i felt insulted at the prospects i know it seems odd but hear me out He sat upright, ready to make his case. Do you know what the universalists are? No.

Well, he continued without missing a beat. Basically, it states that everyone gets into heaven, even if you aren't necessarily in their denomination. This is heaven? I was ready to laugh. This was a joke. No, see, that's a joke. It's the bad news, he continued.

Catholics, Muslims, some Buddhists, they believe in a temporal plane, so they're also sort of right. See, everyone does eventually move on. But before anyone can move on, they must resolve all their earthly obligations and judgments. Before I could remark, he caught his breath and explained further. You died this morning. You served one of your 1001 life sentences. Welcome to number two. I stood up.

This isn't funny. I'm leaving. I couldn't move. I was frozen in place, unable to use my body. My eyes felt like they were being pried towards the seat. Please. I heard the warden, though his voice was now much deeper. sinking my gut.

Sit. I returned to my seat with a sensation that was new to me. Fear. Now, he continued. His voice returning to normal. You are not dead. You just started another sentence. Everything will be back to normal when you leave.

When I dismiss you, you will leave here and return to your bunk. Do you understand? I nodded, still stunned by what I knew as truth. His voice, the unexplained dread I felt that morning. I walked out of the warden's office that day. Feeling her hopelessness I have never known. The prison was the same, but it wasn't.

It was lonelier. Darker, that feels like forever ago. I've learned since then. First, lifetime does not mean from the age you are incarcerated. I expected a 40-year life sentence, but after speaking with a few other inmates serving like myself, who I see sometimes sparingly, I learned that it varies somewhere from 80 to 120 years. It varies, but it's always at least 80. I guess the guards don't notice after a certain point.

Also, I assume they don't register that we never seem to leave. Inexplicable, but that's what's happening. Second, each go around changes you. The prisoners don't notice you. The others like you have fewer words. The guards seemed always out of the line of sight, even when they would interact. They were like fleeting shadows. I'm cracking mentally.

I will walk into the showers and see someone shaving, even speak with him at length. However, when I turn a corner or close a stall door, he'll be gone when I return. Next, I learned that suicide doesn't work. I learned the same way every inmate in here like me does. I slit my wrists, and they just ached. for a week. I swallowed bleach and had a miserable stomach ache, but no death. I hung myself where I choked and flailed, fully conscious for eight straight hours until a guard found me while bringing my breakfast the following morning. I learned that being murdered decreases time, but murdering adds it,

so no one on life row attempts murder here. Finally, escaping isn't an option. We have runners sometimes, men who just finished their first sentence. The guy just snapped. I guess he pulled maybe 60 years before dying in his sleep. He just panicked and ran. The snipers didn't even turn. He grabbed the fence and immediately fell to the ground. From there he shook violently. He died right there of a heart attack. I saw him a week later. Third life sent him. A third life sentence, half crippled. I guess we get punished if we try to leave. I don't know if it's permanent. He was a wreck upon returning. It reminded me of the cats in my neighbourhood as a boy. The first time you hurt it, the animal twitches and becomes neurotic, but given enough time, it accepts its fate.

The man now spends his day staring silently behind dead eyes at whatever light source is around. To some, this is Limbao, where we remain trapped in the prison in which we were condemned until our body, man's soul, have finished their sentences. To others this is some kind of purgatory, where we are groomed for eternity in paradise. Either way, we are forced to remain, forced to live until we pay our dues, never truly dying. I don't even know if time is the same now. But if you're reading this, I managed to successfully get these pages out. I have a handful of plans, which I cannot record. I cannot risk any future attempts should this fail.

I'm leaving this journal for anyone who is a criminal, or wants to become one. I have between 80 to 100,000 years left. I do not feel remorse, but I do wish I knew then what I know now. This is simply a warning. 100,000 years on a concrete slab, a hard unforgiving surface. 100,000 years with one hour a day in a dying earthscape, I barely recognize. 100,000 years of sickly green floors and cold steel doors that move for nothing. 100,000 years of mopping floors or scrubbing toilets

100,000 years of being monitored by beings I cannot fully comprehend as their burning horror erupts in the back of my mind 1001 life sentences 1,000 to go only one small thing gives me comfort with 1,000 life sentences at least it's a nice clean number. I hope I don't die too soon

and ruin this nice even lifetime because the next one will be hell. So once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast.

That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.