The Dark Somnium - "Prison Is Hell"

Episode Date: August 19, 2023

This Creepypasta Scary Story, is from the nosleep subreddit, Written by Sam Marduk, make sure to check out the original story and support the author:"Prison is hell" https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/5bb2lq/prison_is_hell/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I hate it here. Granted, I deserve it. I'm currently locked behind massive concrete walls and solid steel doors in a maximum security penitentiary. I was locked up what feels like a lifetime ago. I earned it. I did. Every second I wrought here is justice, but that doesn't change the fact that I hate it.

It is cold here. I have a single concrete cot in a toilet. My clothes itch and are too thin to keep it. any chills out. The walls are gray with a sickly green tint due to the dull, swamp-like tile that sends a grossly colored 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 gray as the floor. I assume it is lead-based to save on cost. Maybe if I lick it enough times, 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 time outside and shower without being entirely supervised. More than I can say for many in here. My only commodity is my toilet paper in my journal. I earned the journal through much work and good behavior. The pencil I write with is dull and has no eraser, like that of a golfer who used to keep scoreboards. I'm allowed four hours per day with it. 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. 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 it.

I beat the cannibal's 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, 20, 20, 2,0, even and smooth. My compulsion made it this way. 21 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 have a stick of gum, so as to have twenty or ten or thirty items even. However, in the case of killings, it was much more intense. The problem was the itch I felt in between. It 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 would eventually attract attention. The number is partially what got me caught, but I had to scratch the itch, so to speak.

It made me empathize with vampires and old horror stories. The sensation of aching thirst that cannot be quenched. It is nightmarish. The name remained true for my age, 40. I finished at 40, which made me content. I hated not having an 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, threes, sevens, and nines.

I digress. I understand its 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 that he had a little time left. He sat, holding his side and panting in labored breaths. He didn't see me yet. From my vantage point, I could see a long, white bone protruding from his leg,

which tells me the pain from what his ribs were doing was worse than that of a broken leg. That, or 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 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 toward me for help. I slowly placed the sharp edge of the metal into the man's throat and watched as blood began to spurt from the wound in his mouth. He gargled like a drowning sow in his own blood, and after a time he ceased all movement together.

It was a rush, 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 suspect.

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 well.

it was a challenge because of my appearance, but I learned a simple skill, how to hide in plain sight. I was able to work hard in the background. I made good grades and maintained very close friendships throughout school, so no one would discover anything about me. However, I made sure everyone had nice things 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 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 own 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. 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 a 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 throughout 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. First was that a well-mannered, well-educated young lady was no different than any one. 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 of dress, but a party. 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 can bump a certain young lady discreetly enough to send her three stories down into the concrete and make it look like an accident. She landed with a smack, it could only be replicated in my dreams. This was the first time I was aroused by a 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 pooled 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 momento 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 deepest 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 6'2 at 260 pounds. I had always enjoyed lifting weights and working towards my overall health. A fat predator is a bad predator.

I maintain this level of fitness for most of my adult life. I had to in order to pursue my passion. Of course, things 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 had turned 40 the month prior and was on the road delivering a shipment of plywood. I was behind the wheel of my rig in rural Alabama. I was taking a backroad because I enjoy the scenery,

and when you're the boss, you set your own schedule. At this point, I had killed the 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. 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 height 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 have 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 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 is shot. 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 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-dudaw voice.

I'll take you straight into town and we can find you a phone. My wife would kill me if I let a young lady stay stranded in the woods. I wasn't married, but that is another way of disarming her. A spouse always makes a man less dangerous, or again, as 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 knew some teeth were broken by the crunch that emanated from her skull. She fell limp to the dirt, and 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 skull pouring down my shoulder. I carried her into the tall grass just out of sight. 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 and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and 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. Hannah, I believe her name was. I took her glasses that fell 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 had 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 me with an unreadable demeanor. Yes, sir. I answered coolly, holding my ID and paperwork for the truck and delivery. Sir, please step out of the vehicle. He then spoke into his radio. I slowly got out of my truck.

Yeah, we found him. Officer, what is this about? I was cut short. Sir, please turn around and place your hands behind your back. Why? I demanded. I was not about to. 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 had stopped me initially because one of my drivers was caught with the brick of marijuana, and they wanted to stop all trucks from my dispatch to make sure that we were legitimate.

It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating. I was brought down on a technicality. My run lasted from 12 to 40. I was undetected for that entire time. I changed my M.O. I killed strangers only. I was so careful. A 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 all of them. Now, one may ask, why would you be so stupid as to keep momentos?

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 was arguments as to where to have my trial, but 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 favor forward. There was no way to avoid a life sentence, so I may as well have come clean and get to regale the tale 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 all of them 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 a little. It was 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 will only do the most with that in light.

I hereby sentence 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 was the number was uneven, meaning that the rest of my life I would have to say one thousand and one discussing my sentence. He knew this. My demeanor slightly shaking, I asked the judge. Why one thousand and one? The courtroom was silent. The family's friends and jury looked at me with contempt, but that didn't matter then, even less now. The judge leaned over his podium. He smiled with a 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 own 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 my cell.

I also like my privacy. The inmates here are insufferable. They are 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 station were. The stationary guard was not at his post in front of my cell. I was alone in this hallway. Suddenly, I felt a large hand grip my shoulder and ordered 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 enclosed halls until I reached the last room on the right. Inside was totally dark, apart from a dim lamp illuminating a desk. A hand shoved me in and slammed the door behind me. I saw the silhouette of the warden as 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 in eternity, he finally spoke up.

Let's go over your file. His deep voice carried. I did not respond. He gave no indication as to why, so I would bide my time. From here, I will paraphrase, what he said, as my memory can't perfectly recreate the entire conversation. Count one, confessed, not convicted. Man falls off cliff and 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 her 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 tooth. You were 20. Count four, confessed, not convicted. You claimed to have shot 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, but 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 still called. didn't it? Count 11. Confessed, convicted. Ah, this one was special, wasn't she? The gas station employee who you stocked 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 lock-in as a token of your affection. Count 12. Confessed, convicted. 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 wanted to close the gap. You got sloppy, left a lot of evidence behind. I guess because they were vagrants, it wouldn't have mattered. Count 18.

Confessed, 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.

Confessed, 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 him. one of his shoes. Count 20. Confessed, convicted. The one that brought you down. You couldn't resist her. You were too careless, too excited. Now you're here. You took her glasses and bashed her head in. Do you know what they call you? He asked 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. I hated that name. They donned me the scavenger hunt killer because my murders spanned so far, and I connected 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-thrody laugh. No.

He said, settling in. I guess it wouldn't. He continued. I don't get it, really. You were a highly intelligent, healthy, and well-spoken man. Why on earth would you throw that away? I sat in angry silence. I refused to give this man the settlement.

satisfaction of an answer. Do you believe in God? The warden asked. His tone now changed. I chewed my tongue before answering. No? Uh, pity. He responded laxidaisly, as if my response didn't really matter.

That would 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 this next part easier. You passed away this morning, son. Before I could respond, his hand. and tossed a few photos in front of me.

It was me. I lay covered in blood on the shower floor. I had been stabbed from the looks of it. Yeah. The warden, or whoever 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 it 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 prospect. I know it's odd, but hear me out. He sat upright, ready to make his case. Do you know what 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 the bad news. He continued. Catholics, Muslims, some Buddhists, see, 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 even deeper, sinking my gut. Sit. I returned to my seat with a sensation that was new to me. Fear.

Now. He continued. His voice had returned 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 a hopelessness I have never known. The prison was the same, but it wasn't. It was lonelier, darker. That feels like forever ago. I 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. I also 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 line of sight, even when they would interact. They were like fleeting shadows. I am cracking mentally. I will walk into the showers and see someone shaving, even speak with him at length. However, when I turn a corridor 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 from a heart attack.

I saw him a week later. 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 neighborhood as a boy. The first time you heard it, the animal twitches and becomes neurotic, but given enough time, it accepts its fate. The man now spends his days staring silently behind dead eyes at whatever light source is around.

To some, this is limbo, where we remain trapped in the prison in which we were condemned until our body and soul have finished their sentences. To others, this is some kind of purgatory, where we are groomed for eternity and 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 whoever is a criminal or wants to become one. I have between 80,000 and 100,000 years left. I do not feel remorse, but I do wish I knew what I know now. This is simply a warning. 100,000 years on a concrete slab, a hard forgiving service. surface. 100,000 years worth one hour a day in a dying earthscape that 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. 1,001 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 soon and ruin this nice, even lifetime, because the next one will be hell.