The Dark Somnium - The Darkest Story I Ever Heard While in Prison

Episode Date: January 26, 2024

This Creepypasta Scary Story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by T.W Grim, make sure to check out the original story and support the author:"The Darkest Story I Ever Heard While in Prison" (The New Fish) https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1qsnvw/the_new_fish/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I was jolted awake about an hour ago, confused and disoriented. My heart was pounding, and my sheets were soaked in sweat. Some slavering, malevolent horror was in the trailer with me, creeping up on me while I slept with poised claws and razor teeth. The absolute certainty of this coated my mouth with a metallic taste of fear, sour and dry and thick. I grabbed the baseball bat that lays beneath my cot and tiptoed around the cramped darkness of my trailer. straining to hear over the keening of the wind outside and the pounding of my own heart.

Of course, there was nothing there except my goldfish and yours truly, the sweaty guy and his underwear. It was the gusting wind that had startled me awake. It happens quite often in the late autumn and early winter. The wind rips through the scrub of skeletal trees that surround the trailer park and charges with a lion's roar into our lonely huddle of frail little shelters. It gibbers and shrieks and pounds on our walls with fists of dead leaves and frozen grit. Satisfied that I wasn't about to become chow for some unspeakable creature, I laid back down on my squeaky, saggy cot and tried to get back to sleep. But I couldn't. Instead, I found myself thinking about that night in the penitentiary, the night of the lockdown.

I kept thinking about Mikey and Big Rob and the rest of them. All of us huddled in a cell with the lights off and the frigid northwest winds howling at the walls. After a while, I gave up trying to sleep. Instead, I sat down in front of the computer and started typing. I'm no storyteller, not like Mike or Hutch, but I'll try my best. When I first came to the pen, the thing that struck me the most about the place was just how much the cons talk.

On the occasion when I'd served time in the county jail, there had a time. Had been talk, sure, but it was terse and impersonal. When they're only serving a few months, I guess a lot of people feel the situation is too temporary to bother forging any ties with their fellow inmates. You'd play cards with your celly, or you'd sit in the dayroom and watch TV in relative silence. The only time there'd ever be any noise or action was when a scrap broke out over a card game. Fights were the only thing that passed as excitement in county.

Every other moment of the day was comprised of dull, boring nothing. Going in, you just hope that the food wouldn't be too bad, and that your celly wouldn't end up being a gang member or a meth-head biker waiting out a long patch of dead time. People, in other words, who might beat the shit out of you as a way to pass the hours. The pen, though, it's an incredibly noisy, smelly, vocal environment. I remember very clearly the moment when my little group of newer, rivals were let out of the fish tank and into our new home, a pod housing 200 inmates.

I was overwhelmed by the deafening din of voices and activity when the hacks marched us, bundles in hand, out onto the range. Of course, there were the obligatory cat calls and wolf whistling, but most of the cons seemed completely oblivious to us. They were too busy living the ebb and flow of penitentiary life. Of course, this was not actually true. Conn's see everything, and I mean everything, but they talk even more. My first cellie wanted both my bail and my ass in that order. That wasn't happening. I hammered him in the mouth and it was on. The fight spilled out of the cell and into the corridor of the pod. He was a big, tough old bull, but I had him leaking and his confidence was shaken. Before the COs got to us, I'd managed to get

him face down onto the floor and was whamming away at the back of his neck like a jackhammer. Then the hacks got there, and one of them laid a size 12 boot upside my skull. The kick knocked my brain clear over the moon. The world immediately went out of focus, and it stayed that way for almost 12 hours. I spent the next three weeks in the hole for fighting, and when I got out, I was placed in a different pod. Word had got around that this fish wasn't exactly new, and that I had a mean right cross. No one bothered to try and roll up on me in the yard that day, and when I said it was

I sat down at Chow with my new Selly and some of his boys, no one objected. I had been checked and I'd passed the test. Yeah, it was a different world. The pen is, and it has wildly different rules. You couldn't fully understand unless you've been there. It wasn't long before I settled into a routine. Up for a headcount and chow, off to work in the laundry, chow, nap, work out, chow, and then the struggle to fill the dead hours between supper and lights out.

There wasn't much to do. The cons played cards, betting with tobacco bails purchased from commissary and individual hand-rolled smokes. Some watched TV and others watch the wall. Some watched each other. Tensions were always high between the rival gangs. Dope fiends spiked what they like to spike in the bathrooms. Daddies took their sugar boys into rented cells or the showers, while their friends watched for the guards. And there was, of course, a lot of.

of talk. Talk of families back home, women had and lost, of misdeeds proudly done. There were enough stories flying around that place to fill a library. Myselli was an old con named Mikey. He had originally been sentenced to 15 years for second-degree murder during a robbery, but he had gotten into so much trouble since landing in the pen that he'd managed to acquire an additional 10 years on top of that. Mikey was doing all day, and he'd made peace with that fact. A good cat, all and all, a straight shooter who didn't mess with the spike. The thing was, he'd kill just about anyone if he got it into his head that he wanted to. In earlier years, Mikey had been a trigger man for the bikers.

He'd been convicted for the murder of six people and was a suspect in 16 others, and I can imagine that a number of them had probably been friends of his. At one point or another, in certain circles, a good friend can become your murderer in the blink of an eye. That's the kind of people you do time with in maximum security. Mikey and his crew liked nothing better than to spend a Sunday evening crowded up in someone's cell, drinking Pruno and shooting the shit. Personally, I didn't care much for the hooch. It tasted like rotting garbage with a heavy fruit bouquet.

But the stories were welcome. When Mikey or one of the homeboys were on a roll, we could all forget ourselves and be somewhere else for a little while. As far as cons go, they were good guys. They were, and these bull sessions were the glue that held Mikey's crew together. I remember watching and listening for hours on end, Spellbound, as Mikey or Big Rob or whoever wove a tapestry of words in the thin air around us. They'd make us roar with laughter, clench and rage, and even silently, choke up in sadness.

Some of those guys could play a man's emotions like a violin with their storytelling. They were masters of the form. Most of the time, the stories were pretty coarse, which was to be expected. I mean, look where they were coming from. And occasionally, they were downright horrifying. But there's one in particular that I can remember word for word, quite literally. I can actually close my eyes and see Mikey and Rob Hutch and the rest of them, sitting there in the cell that night.

All of us bathed in the sickly red glow of the emergency lights and transfixed by what we were being told. This particular story likes to pop up in my head in the small dead hours of the night, when the harsh winds of drab old November lash and rock my rusty little trailer hard enough to wake me up, as they did tonight. Coincidentally, it was on a November night just like this when I heard the story. I was about a year into a four-year sentence for armed robbery, and this was my second winter in the pen. I recall that the goddamn wind was cutting through the walls really badly that night. I recall that the goddamn wind was cutting through the walls really badly that night, and the drafts were freezing our toes solid.

There had been a murder that day, and the whole pen was on lockdown, all five pods and the protective custody unit too. Big Rob Hutch was a man who had his ear to the ground, and he had known that the lockdown was imminent. We had just enough time to make preparations for what was coming. Happy for a chance to hang out and get messed up, seven of us quickly heard it into a sudden. sell with our bedding, snacks from the commissary, and as much gear as we could get our hands on. I remember that we were all wrapped up in our thin, scratchy blankets like convict burritos. The blankets were gray and made of rough wool. Upon checking into the Razor Wire Inn, you were issued one and one only.

In the winter, blankets were at a premium. Men would fight for them, sometimes even kill for them. Mikey and Big Rob were both sitting on the lower bunk. Coltrane and his kid Remy had the top one. I was freezing my ass on the floor, along with Nick and Richie. The young pups had to sit on the floor, and that's just the way it was. The old cons got to snuggle their asses into the relative comfort of the thin mattress, but covered the squeaky spring slats.

We weren't complaining out loud about it, though. We knew better than to do that. Big Rob was a trustee, and one of his duties was to mop the floors in the prison morgue. He was telling us what had happened. when the coroner performed his autopsy on Stutters. Stutters was a junkie who had been suspected of ratting out various other cons to the cops in exchange for smack. He was the reason why the entire pen was on lockdown.

He had been discovered in his bunk after lunch, dead as day-old dog shit and full of ragged holes. The shiv was found in a toilet in the shower room. It had been made from plastic bags, heated to melting with a bick, then compressed to form a sturdy, sharp little weapon. up by where they keep the gurneys and down the hall the doors open a bit, so I could see the dock leaning over stutters on the table. He's humming and singing to himself like usual, and I'm smiling at how shitty his voice is. When all of a sudden the doc says,

Holy shit, what you look at that? And he starts gagging and retching. Then, get this, then he actually screams. For real, he freaking screamed, and he yells, Jesus Christ, it's all over my arm. He runs out of the room. He runs out of the room. He runs out of the room and down the other hall, and I'm like, what the hell is all that about? I heard him yelling for his assistants or whatever they are, the younger ones. They all come running back, and I heard one of the assistants say, Oh, you got to be kidding me. Then the smell hits me, from all the way down that long-ass hallway, and it's putrid, boys.

Smelled like a combination of rotting flesh in an old shithouse in August. I had to grab my nose and run the hell out of there. Worst thing I ever smelled. Nick asked, What was it from? And shifted uncomfortably where he sat beside the toilet. He was a good bit younger than me. He'd just celebrated his 20th birthday a few months ago.

It was his first time in and he'd drawn the short straw, 15 years, eight before he'd be considered for parole. His uncle, fortunately for Nick, was also serving time in the same facility. He was an upper echelon Hell's Angel who ruled both B-Pod and C-Pod with an iron fist. As a result, Nick was getting the easiest ride a first-timer to the pen ever had. Coltrane and Mikey had personally welcomed the kid into the crew, as per the old man's orders. He was fresh-faced and physically soft. I occasionally wonder if he'd ever really know just how bad it could have been for him in there.

Apparently, Big Rob said, lowering his voice to a husky stage whisper. Studders was getting checked for pokes and track marks pretty regular, because he got buzzed. He lost it so much for position. So he started shooting in his ass. But not like in his ass crack, you dig. I mean, right into the wall of his rectum. He was shooting it right inside his filthy asshole, man. Can you imagine that?

Pretty soon he developed horrible abscesses. Because of all the fecal bacteria and crap that was living up his old dirt road, the abscess got infected real bad. After a while, it skinned over with a crust of wide blood cells and gross stuff and ballooned out into a giant pus bubble. That bubble got so big that it eventually closed up the poor bastard's ass, and I mean right fucking shut. He apparently was going around like that for weeks, man.

For real. Weeks. Must have heard like a bitch. So, the doc saw something kind of bubbling out of the dead bastard's asshole, and he prodded at it with his scalpel and pop. Out gushes a metric shitload of bloody green pus, full of dead bacteria and stinking like the devil's ball sack. Oh, that's just dirty, man.

Mikey groaned and mimed throwing up all over Hutch. We were all wrinkling our noses and disgust and shaking our heads. Dirty was not nearly adequate for this disgusting image. That ain't it, though, my friend. That ain't it. The worst part was the fact that stutters had been bunged up with this pus balloon for a few weeks or so, you know? It stopped up his shit canal. When the dock popped that thing with his scalpel,

ah, hell, it was a literal shitstorm. It spurted out of his ass like a high-pressure hose. We regarded that image for a moment or two and stunned silent. I felt a bit ill. So fucking dirty! Mikey roared. And despite what I just heard, I had to laugh. Coltrane and others joined in.

Remy just looked disgusted. He was filing his nails. Remy was no longer just another cell-block punk, a weaker man that traded what he had to trade in order to get by in a world dominated by strength. In recent months, he'd gone and went full-blown sissy. After a year or so of enduring the subservient female role at the receiving end of Coltrane, he'd finally stopped playing the part and was now living it. It was apparent that he'd started taking illicit female hormones.

His arm hair had thinned out, and it seemed that he had recently grown the barest suggestion of breasts beneath his orange jumpsuit. By the time I got out of the pen, Remy had changed his name to Rianne, and was the wife of Get Ready for This, none other than Nick's uncle, the unofficial king of Pod's B and C. Rian was known for causing savage fights amongst inmates who were vying for his attention. That, incidentally, was exactly how Coltrane ended up earning an unexpected early parole. A backdoor parole, as they call it. Because you don't leave through the front gate when you're dead.

So the dock got shit on by a corpse? Said Richie in a slow and dreamy tone. It was pus-covered shit. That's messed up, man. Hey, do you think that happens a lot to him? Or like, was that the first time? Richie had snored some hydromorphone earlier, and now he was somewhere in the clouds,

floating around with a stoned grin on his face. Richie, that's just... Mikey trailed off. Actually, it's a good question. Want some hooch boys? I was just opening my mouth to say, Hell no, and there was a pop, and everything went dark. McCons began yelling and hooting all across the pod.

Both tears on both sides. Shut up, you idiots! It's just a blackout for Christ's sake. Pop the hell down! Big Rob yelled. And, for wonder, some of them actually did. The thing is, Big Robb. Rob Hutch was, well, just that, big.

He was as big as a buffalo. I was surprised that the lower bunk could support both Rob and Mikey, who was not exactly small himself. The emergency lights snapped on, soft and red and eerie. It made the common area of C-Pod look like a scene from an apocalyptic horror movie. We could see the guards standing in the guard hut, through the bulletproof glass, waiting to see how the cons were going to react to the power going out during a lockdown. Now, not only were we being sequestered in our cramped little cells for an indeterminable length of time, we also had been rendered unable to properly read a book.

A number of the cons could actually read, and did. Four see your hand while playing cards, or even listen to the radio for Christ's sake. The hack was a dark figure, swathed and dim red, his body language alert and poised for action. I'm pretty sure it was Robson who was boss on hut duty that night. Robson was a dead-eyed, square jaw to oaf without an ounce of empathy in his whole body, and he just so happened to have a 12-gauge shotgun on hand with a modified choke. I fervently hoped that no one would take it into their heads to start some serious shit, because if they did, it was a good chance we'd all regret it.

There was a lot of hollering and door-kicking around the pod, but it soon became apparent that the ruckus was just for show, and was half-hearted at best. We all silently thanked whoever might be listening that the emergency reaction team wasn't going to be called in. The ERT didn't mess around. Kevlar suited and anonymous in their visored helmets. They'd march into the pod and indiscriminately barge into cell after cell, busting heads

and wapping out teeth with their batons. Hell, you might even get shot. And the ERT shoot to kill. Richie broke the silence. Man, I was getting real worried there for a second. That damn goon squad busted in here and found all her shit. We'd be dicked. Richie was doing six years for selling pills, the sentence for a second-time loser.

Oxycontin and hydrocodone were his chemicals of choice. Faced with the boredom of prison life, he'd started using the products he sold. He was a straight-up junkie by Christmas of that year. Mikey didn't care about anyone using junk. Would even have a little snort here and there himself, but he didn't like addicts, not one bit. He cut Richie out of the crew, addled by junk, plagued by debt, weak and alone, Richie ended up bunking with some fellows from the top tier across from us, the black tier. In a maximum security penitentiary, this has unpleasant connotations.

Business might occur between the color lines, but that's generally where any benign fraternization ends. You might not be racist when you're on the outside, but when you're inside, you don't have much choice. To be blunt, it's like this. If you're white, you stick with the whites. The black and Hispanic cons don't want to be your buddy and vice versa. There are, for a variety of reasons, a large number of hostilities between the color lines.

They'll stomp the shit out of you or worse. When we got worried that Richie had been seen walking, his face cast down up the stairs to that second tier, well, we knew. Richie had heavy debts, forced to either trade himself or die. had chosen life. Jesus, I felt horrible for how it ended for Richie. I still do. His desperate last bid to cling to his wretched, mortal existence only prolonged the

inevitable. He was dead within a month. One day, after enduring his morning sessions, something must have finally snapped in Richie's head. His will to live crumpled and fell. Richie stayed behind whilst his tormentors went down for Morning Chow, and he stuck a spike in his arm for the last time. High as a kite, Richie then hung himself from the corner post of the top bunk.

He did it with a rope made of knotted together socks. I'm rambling now, aren't I? Sorry, I do that sometimes. It'll just have to bear with me, I guess. I'm not good at this, not like Mikey or hutch. I'm just a lonely guy who can't sleep some nights. When the shrieking wind could be mistaken for the wailing of lost souls, shaking and rattling the windows in their frames.

Even though I was released from the pen 15 years ago, I can't shake the feeling that I'm somehow still inside. But I suppose that we're all imprisoned by something, on some level, aren't we? On nights like tonight, my prison is this rusty trailer. It's my pathetic, menial job, my divorce, my raw, red-eyed fury, unfocused and impotent. It's sorrow and regret. On nights like tonight, my prison is the past and my inability to leave it behind. So there we all were, sitting there in the weird red gloom and listening to all the yelling and

bullshit slowly died down. Richie abruptly went on the nod. Nick balanced a shoe on his head. We all chuckled. Coal train started talking about a hockey game that was about to start, then abruptly shut up. We were on lockdown with no electricity. There would be no hockey game. that night, not for us. We passed a Jay around, and when that one was roached, we passed another.

Finally, Mikey spoke up and broke the silence. So, who's up for some Twilight Zone shit tonight? I got a good one for you. You remember the last time the power went out, Hutch? Hutt shot him a dark look, then did something very unusual for a hardened con. He shuddered. You want to tell the boys that story? I don't know, man. Why not? The lights are out, and the winds are howling out there.

Perfect time for it. Okay, screw it. Let's do it. Big Rob cleared his throat and said, Okay, boys, it's time for a scary story. Crowd around the campfire and grab a cup of this fine wine. It's more of a brandy, I think, Hutch. Mikey grinned and offered me some.

Reluctantly, I accepted a styrofoamed cut. cup of murky, eye-watering stuff and steeled myself to swallow it. I was feeling a bit happier now. I've always been a fan of spooky stories. His voice stern, Mikey growled. Okay. First things first, this shit is 100% true. Got it?

We're not bullshitting about any of this, for real. So don't tell us we're full of shit. Or you can have a sleepover. with that asshole over in Hackshack. Got it. Richie grunted, then flopped over onto the floor. He was out of it. This all went down a long time ago before any of you were here.

At least 12 years, I'd say. Mikey? Yeah, for sure. At least that long. It was a while back anyways. Me and Mikey here were both running with different crews back then, into different shit, but we knew each other. guess it would have been about your age.

So, one day, the fish tank had just been emptied out into the pod, and there was a new fish with them that immediately starts turning heads. I was playing checkers on the tier upstairs when they all came walking through the gate, looking like a bunch of lost little lambs down there on the range. They came toddling in behind a couple of the hacks, and at the end of the line is the prettiest little sweet boy this whole penitentiary has ever seen. I don't play no grab-ass like Coltrane up there, but this kid, he was, I don't know, almost like an angel or something. He was too perfect, like a picture out of a magazine, you know, slender and fair-haired, teeny bopper heartthrob material.

Yeah, the kid was pretty all right, and he looked like he'd be easy to punk. Big Rob took a moment to pause and forced back a sweat. of awful, cloying pruno, a noxious blend of fermented fruit, sugar packs, and yeast. As he grimly swallowed it down, Mikey jumped in and continued the story. The new fish immediately drove the whole pod completely fucking nuts. The wolves were losing their minds for real. The cards were looking worried. A pretty kid like that can cause a whole lot of hard feelings between the bowls.

Hard feelings usually turn into murder, so they released the other fishies to take care of the boss at the guard hut, then hustled the pretty boy off to protective custody, pokes haste. They kept him there for a few days, but the wolves didn't forget about him, not for a moment. All the time, they're asking about the kid to the trustees who had access to the PC. They're asking if the kid's lonely, if he wants a candy bar, or a fuckbook, or a baggie of horse, whatever the kid might possibly want. They're handing the trustee's love notes to give him money, weed, all kinds of shit. Finally, a con named Holbrook called in some heavy favors, and the hacks moved.

the kid back into the pod, more to the point, into Holbrook's cell. I remember watching as the hacks walked the young fellow across the pod and up the stairs to his new room. The kid had no expression in those wide blue eyes. None at all, just blink. The new fish immediately drove the whole pod completely fucking nuts. The wolves were losing their minds for real. The guards were looking worried. A pretty kid like that can cause a lot of hard feelings between the bowls. Hard feelings usually turn into murder, so they released the other fishies to the care of

the boss at the guard hut, then hustled the pretty boy off to protective custody post-haste. They kept him there for a few days. the wolves didn't forget about him. Not for a moment. All the time, they're asking about the kid to the trustees who had access to the PC. They're asking if the kid's lonely. If he wants a candy bar or a fuckbook or a baggy of horse, whatever the kid might possibly want. They're handing the trustee's love notes to give to him. Money, weed, all kinds. of shit. Finally, a con named Holbrook called in some heavy favors, and the hacks moved the kid back into the pod, more to the point, into Holbrook's cell. I remember watching as the hacks walked the young fella across the pod and up the stairs to his new home.

The kid had no expression in those wide blue eyes of his. None at all. just blank. Holbrook was a big, greasy son of a bitch. Real nasty. You could smell him from 20 feet away. Complete psycho that guy. Man, I'll tell you, watching his brook he grinned and waited at the door of his cell

for his new little bunk buddy to arrive. Hell, it made me feel sorry for the kid. He was planning to do bad things to the boy. You could see it in that grin. He was going to hurt him. No expression at all, though, on that kid's face. I remember thinking that the fishy was either brave as hell or just too stupid to understand what was in store for him.

Rob tossed back the rest of the hooch in his Dixie Cup and tried not to gag. This shit is just awful. Who brewed this? His voice sounded dry and burnt. Our fine neighbors down the... The hall, that's who. They managed to hide it in the toilet tank long enough to get her finished. And holy Jesus, ain't it nasty?

I think I'm going blind already. Hutch held out his cup. Mikey poured him another glurt out of a plastic bag. Taking care to make sure the sock he was using as a filter didn't slip out and spill rotting fruit cocktail all over the bunk. I tried a sip of mine and almost wretched. They all had a good hearty heart at this, except for Richie. I guess Richie was still laying on the floor, his eyelids fluttering and twitching. And broke more than a few hars to see Holbrook get his dirty hooks into the kid first.

He would wreck the kid's asshole and destroy his soul. That was the general consensus. Come morning, they'd be rolling the kid out to the infirmary and, afterward, probably sticking back into PC for a 24-hour. suicide watch. Even if he did come back to the pot again, no one would want the kid, not after the permanent damage that Brookie was liable to do to him. See how lucky you are? Coltrane said to Remy, and the little Frenchman smiled down at his nails in response.

Then kept filing them, delicately, with all of his concentration. Every now and then, I wonder if Remy was already planning the flirtations and indiscretions that would inevitably result in Coltrane's murder. his skull smashed in with a 20-pound dumbbell in the weight pit. Coltrane, the bull queer who had taken Remy's manhood, and eventually transformed him into something that he probably never wanted to be. Thinking about it now, I'm pretty sure he was, and I can't blame him for it. I heard screaming that night.

It was muffled, but I could still hear it. So did my celly. Back then, it was old Johnny Franzini. I whispered up to him. Hey, you hear that shit, man? That's God awful. And he answered, real matter of fact. That boy, he had to know it was coming, eh?

He's too pretty like a girl to be here in this place. He should have never come here. As if the guy volunteered or something, I just shook my head and told Johnny to go to sleep. I felt so bad for the kid, you know. I think that was one of the worst nights I ever had in here. I heard it too. I think we all did, including the bosses on duty that night.

But no one wanted to check on him, because money makes the rules around here, not the warden or the government. It's money. I don't doubt that the sick shit offered big coin for the kid, and some cold son of a bitch sold him without a second thought. Hutch nodded sourly. Money's a whore. That's okay, though, because there's a thing called karma too. When morning came, lo and behold, Brookie ain't standing outside his cell waiting to be accounted for. Neither is the kid.

A whisper popped up real quick and spread down the lines like the breeze, and it said, Holbrook went apeshion on the kid last night and killed him. He's waiting in his cage for the ERT to come in and bust his head. The boss doing the head count paused in Holbrook's cell, and every con craned his head to see, what was going to happen next. All of us in unison. I seen the hack pull out his radio with one hand and his club with the other. He started talking real fast into his radio. At the same time, he's slowly walking towards the door of Bucky Cell with his club poised to bash a skull in, like he's trying to ward someone off. He started yelling for the other hacks to get the fuck over here, Pronto.

They all came thundering past with their keys jangling, their boots clomping. Then we get all ordered to step back into our cells with empty bellies. I heard him down there at Brookie's cell, yelling into their radios and stomping around. And then I heard someone barf. I heard the puke splatter on the tiles. We had to stay in ourselves for a few hours, and there was a lot of bitching.

I remember being totally completely pissed at Holbrook, me and Johnny F. We assumed that he'd gone psycho on the new fish and cut the kid's throat while he was fucking him or something. shit like that. But then, some of the emergency response guys came past Wheeling a gurney, and when they wheeled it past us again, you could have knocked me flat with a pea-shooter, because it was Holbrook strapped in there, not the kid. I only saw him for a few seconds, but I remember that his face was fucked. Miss Muxley gone, stripped right down to bloody sinew

and bones, no skin or muscles left. It was fucking gross. him. I kind of gasped out loud, and even closed-mouthed, crooked-nosed old Johnny Branzini had to look twice and say, Huh? What the fuck? The only way I knew it was him was the hair. A big, greasy mop of it, like a caveman. The sheet covering the body was soaked right through with his blood. I think that the rest of him had matched his face. Nick whistled and said, Fuck, man. That's hardcore. Then sparked another joint.

The floor dwellers had almost forgotten about the discomfort of our numb behinds and tingling feet. We'd forgotten the lockdown and the power outage, and even poor stutters, who'd not only died a violent death, but had also died with his ass blocked up like a cystic sore the size of a man's fist. Mikey and Hutch were telling a story, and we were living it. And you know what? We were right there. Must have been five minutes later. The cops are rolling this crazy-looking thing down the block, and I'm like, What the hell is that?

To my celly. But he don't know either. Before long, they roll it past again, and I'm like, oh shit, look at this. You ever see Silence of the Lambs? The dolly cart thing, they strap Anthony Hopkins into when they're moving them? Yeah, that's. That's exactly what it was. And they've got the kid strapped into it, bite mask and everything.

And the kid is soaked in blood, man. It was dripping off his clothes and I could hear it pattering on the floor behind him. It left the trail on the floor. They let us out for breakfast about half an hour after that. But by then it was almost lunch. We got served a messed up mix of warm lunch and cold. breakfast. There was more talking going on than eating, though. And everyone was saying the same thing. We were all saying, what the hell did the kid do to him? Most people thought that he must

have gotten a hold of Brookie's shiv somehow, then sliced the bastard shit right off, whittled him down to the ball. But Brookie was such a big dude. And the guy was a crazy motherfucker. How a skinny little bitch like that could have overpowered a bad doom like Holbrook so easy? Well, we don't know. The joint traveled across the floor folk and was then handed up to the bunks. Mikey hit it hard and made that funny choking noise that the older guys sometimes do when holding in a big toke, nasally and strangled. He gave Nikki the thumbs up and blasted out smoke like a grizzled old dragon.

Shit's pretty good, Nicky. Got a score. Got to get some more of that. So yeah, the kid. He got rolled off to the hole on this fucking Hannibal Lecter Dolly. And they had him on a super tight lockdown. Nobody even catches a glimpse of him. They had the kid on a 24-hour watch and the hole works.

A couple of trustees tried asking what happened with him and Brookie. and they got told to mind their own business and mop the fucking floors. The kid was in the hole for a week, then two. Then a month? All the while, ain't no one heard a peep about him getting charged with murder. There was a rumor going around that the coroner said in his report that Holbrook had died from a heart attack. Maybe his heart seizing up was the thing that actually killed him. Sure, but there wasn't any mention of the way he'd been carved up like a Sunday turkey.

None at all. Mikey poured himself another round of refreshment, and the stink of the old bag made my eyes water. Hutch smiled a little, an action with no real humor behind it. Well, tongues were wagging, as they tend to do, and pretty soon people were saying that maybe the kid wasn't natural, that he did brooky in with his teeth, that he ate. the fucker alive like some sort of monster. Guys were even saying that the priest paid him a visit in the hole and ended up leaving with tears in his eyes, actually fucking crying and shit.

Wouldn't say what happened, just that he didn't want to talk to the kid, never again. He quit working here not long after that happened, just up and quit. And I heard that Padre ended up selling his house moving away, like across the country, Somewhere far, far away. Mikey's iron-gray beard split with a slight grin of his own. Now, here's where shit gets really weird. Rob grunted. Billy Tremont.

And hauled hard on the joint, decimating it to a smoldering ember between his thick fingers. Yeah, him. He was a hack who worked the night shift. And I'll tell you something. He was just as dirty. as they come. Fucking guy wasn't just on the take. He was the take, you know what I'm saying? He was as much a gangster as any of the boys in here. He controlled what came into the pen and when, who got it, and how much they got. The dude squeezed out whatever competition he had from the other

cops that were playing the game by any means available. He set him up to get fired, paid to have him shit kicked by the bikers, you name it. He was a complete fucking asshole, but he was all so real good at getting you what you wanted for a price. Well, it's a fact that people love mystery, especially people who ain't got fuck all to do with their time. A few guys pooled together some cash, and they came to Billy,

because if anyone could find the answers to their question, Billy fucking Tremont could Billy laughed and tells him he'd love to take their money but he couldn't do what they were asking he says the weird little bastard didn't have no file

as far as I can tell I don't know who he was why he came here or where he came from no one does and that's the goddamn truth The guys called him a bullshitter And Billy got serious on them He narrowed his eyes and said to him You think guys don't think I tried to find out for myself already

Ha As far as I can tell The kid just popped into the fish tank Out of thin air Looks to me like everyone just kept processing him along Because no one wanted to admit They didn't know who the fucking kid was Call me a liar again and I'll beat the fear of God into you.

It was clear that they weren't going to get anywhere with Billy. So the guys... What kid? Wait a minute. Man, which one's the kid? Richie's eyes looked like black bottomless pools. I remember that. He had already sunk deep into the mindless tar pit of addiction by then.

He was past the point of no return. You could see it in his eyes. Shut up, dummy. Rob turned to Mikey and made a gesture that said, please continue. Mikey gave Rich a cold stare and then said, So the guys gave up and said, bark it then. That's that for a while. Life goes on.

Then a day comes when Billy sidles up to one of the cons while he's standing in the morning chow line and tells him that he's found some information on the fish. if anyone still cared to know. Billy was looking bad, they said. He looked tired and scared. That night, Billy comes to see the guy in his cell after lights out. He asks the guy for a smoke.

And Billy had quit smoking years ago. Billy says to him, I don't want any money for this. Keep your lousy fucking money. I don't want to be the only one that can't. sleep at night as all. You pieces of shit got him into my head and I couldn't get him out. Fuck you for doing that. Fuck you people sideways. The guy said that Billy Traymont's hands were shaking so fucking bad that he could hardly get his smoke lit. Billy tells the con that curiosity

had been eating him fucking alive. So he spends some time thinking, on how up to go about getting what he wanted. Then he picked his mark. Billy always had his ear to the ground, you know the type. He knew this and that, who did what and where and why. He knew stuff about people. He knew that one of the suits in the office had a bad Coke habit, the kind of raging habit that most people can't afford for long.

He also knew that the suit and the warden were both banging the same chick, the warden's secretary. Billy gave him a quarter ounce of good rock cocaine and told him what he wanted. He promised to shoot the guy an ape ball on top of what he already gave him if, if the guy could deliver the goods. The suit came back a few days later with the sniffles And a file that looked older than the goddamn Bible It was made out of some kind of rough, crumbling old cardboard dry as dust The office stiff says that the warden's secretary told him where to find it Locked up in a cabinet in the warden's office

He said that he put himself in all kinds of danger to get it And he wanted more than a ball for his troubles. He wanted more than a quarter, too. Billy told him that he could either take the ball, or Billy could let the warden know that one of his minions wasn't just a cokehead and a thief, but that he was dipping his wick into the warden's honeypot, too. Billy told the suit that the ass-fucking the warden would give him wouldn't be anywhere near as bad as what one of the warden would.

wolves would deliver. The guy shut his yap, took his ape ball, and they parted ways. So, in between drags of smoke, Billy tells the con that the first documents in the folder were pages taken from a court transcript, some backwater courthouse sitting way out in cow country. They were handwritten with an old pen. Billy said. You know, the kind that you had to dip in a fucking ink well,

then pat dry against the plotter so the shit didn't smear. That's how old the thing was. All the dates in the kid's name were scribbled out, Billy said. But he figured out the first documents in the folder were from the late 1800s. What? That ain't even possible. It is what it is, Nikki. The transcript said that the kid had been charged with multiple murder, practicing satanic rights,

cannibalism, arson, mayhem. It was only 16 years old when they tried him. The prosecutor wanted to hang him for his crimes. But the defense lawyer that the crown had appointed, some greasy little fucker, he argued it wouldn't be godly to let the kid live out the rest of his days in jail, seeing as hell, the kid was known to be an orphaned vagrant who'd raised himself in the woods. No moral guidance in the woods. That was the argument. The jury ended up getting all pious and shit, and they commuted the kid's date with the rope to a life sentence.

They shipped him off to the clink and that very first night he killed his cellmate, killed him with his nails and teeth, and then he ate the poor son of a bitch. Coltrane looked disturbed. Holy fuck. This is horror movie stuff. I'm sorry, but you guys got to be shitting us. Kind of wish I was kidding, but I'm not. Belly said that they stuck the kid in a loony bin for the criminal.

insane after he ate his celly, put him in a straight jacket. At some point, the quacks realized that the usual treatments weren't working for shit, so they decided to give the kid a lobotomy. He was out like a light from the ether, and they were just getting ready to start. When the kid suddenly breaks his arm restraints and sinks his teeth into the lead surgery. Surgeon's throat like a goddamn wolf, ripped it right out. There's no way he should have still been conscious, let alone being able to snap those thick bands of leather. But he was, and he did.

Way I heard it, after he killed the quack, they put the kid back on the stand, and this time he got 12 votes for death. It took him to the town square and marched the kid up to the gallows. with all the townspeople screaming and throwing moldy bread and cow shit at him. He was laughing at him. The hangman put the rope around his neck and asked the kid if he has any last repentant words to share with the crowd. The kid says, loud and clear, there's nothing to repent in doing what you want. I'd fuck your mother's ass and fry up her heart if I wanted to,

and after I was done picking my teeth, I wouldn't so much as fodder a blessing. Why should I? So the cops beat on the kid with their clubs a bit, put the hood on the little fucker, and the hangman pulls the lever. But the trap door wouldn't open. He fitted with it and tried three more times, and each time the door wouldn't swing open. They didn't know what to do. All the while, the kid was laughing and cursing at them and praising the devil, just being a general pain in the ass. People were screaming for him to swing.

It was getting ugly out there and fast. So someone gets the bright idea that they could just put the kid up against the wall and shoot him and be done with it. Only that didn't work either. Mikey added, his words were becoming thick and slurred. It sounded like the hooch was starting to do the trick. Shit. They put the kid up against a brick wall and five cops took aim. Five cops pulled the trigger and five guns misfired.

They tried again. And the same shit happened. By now, the people watching were getting spooked. The crowd of farmers and millworkers who came out to watch the kid hang, they all suddenly had places to go. Everyone left, and the Lord's prayer was on more than a few sets of lips as they went, I bet. When everyone was gone, the cops packed him back into the wagon, because there was nothing else they could fucking do, you know?

They took him back to the courthouse, and after some debating behind closed doors, the judge had him sent to a different jail, where he was locked up in an unused room in the basement. Then they boarded up the door, and then, for good measure, they bricked the whole goddamn thing over. Ritchie attempted to focus his eyes up at Mikey and said, Can they, can they really do that, man? Just put someone in a hole and break the fuck over? Nick spoke up. His voice was hoarse.

Maybe not these days, but we're talking back when a lot of people didn't even have a birth certificate. Sure they could have done that. We'd never know. He lit another joint and passed it. So what, man? They just left the crazy little shit there to die? Another good question, Richie. Maybe you haven't killed every single. brain cell yet after all. Mikey slugged back some more of the noxious hooch and grimaced. Billy Tremont said that there was only two other documents in the folder, an extremely

fucking old mugshot and a report to the board of corrections from a sanitation engineer. It was written sometime in the 50s. He'd been down in the old basement of the very same prison where they walled up the kid. He was down there checking out the shit pipes. It didn't have fuck all to do with what he was looking for, but the engineer mentioned in his report that he'd found a bricked over doorway down there. Curiosity got the better of him,

and he tore away the crumbling old brick with a crowbar, pried off the boards, and popped the door open. Do you know what he found? Skeleton. Richie muttered. He was struggling to keep his eyes from sliding shut. No. Nothing.

That's what he found. When he forced the door open, the room was empty. We all took a few moments to digest this. And then Bulldog ate his gun. Don't forget about that. Hutch rumbled. He handed the Jay back over to Nicky. Nick curled his lip and disgust.

Who slobbered on this shit? Ugh, it's wet as hell. Gross, man. No one owned up to the deed. Nick started to bitch about it some more, and Hutch gave him that look, the one that said shut up immediately or regret it. Nick shut up. Mikey snickered.

Thank you kindly, Hutch. And Nikki? Come on, kiddo. Just pinch off the wet pot and stop your bitching. Where was I? Anyhow, that prick, Bulldog, he was one of the least loved hacks in the entire history of the joint. A real, genuine, died in the wool piece of shit. He was still a few years south of retiring when all this happened.

Late 50s, I'd say. A huge, fat, red-faced motherfucker he was. Mean or in hell. His blood pressure was right off. the scale all the time. There wasn't nothing he liked better than to find an excuse to smash some unfortunate bastard upside the head. He'd do it with a sock full of quarters that he kept hanging on his belt. When you heard the jingling of change, you straightened up and stopped messing around until it was gone. If that nasty old shit was in the mood, well, you still

clear and you kept your big yappas shut. So, they put this guy on watch in front of the kid's cell, doing the graveyard shift, right? He was all alone, too. No partner or nothing. I guess the other hacks didn't like the fat, mouthy fuck either. There he was, night after night. Just him and this creepy kid

all night long. Normally, this wouldn't have been very good for the con being watched, being alone with a tired, grumpy bulldog, and no witnesses. It would have been a long, long season in hell for most cons. But the fish wasn't the usual white boy dummy we get in here. You know what I mean. like a kid who got mixed up with something stupid and then wasn't rich enough to buy his way out of it.

Not this fish. He was something else entirely. Mikey paused to force down a big glert of Pruno, and Hutch jumped in. Well, old bulldog only lasted for about a month before he goes to his shift supervisor and requests that he be taken off the watch. The head screws office door was open a bit and some doomed named, uh, tags or rags, some shit like that, I can't remember. Anyway, he supposedly overheard most of the conversation while he was waiting to see the warden.

Why was he waiting to see the warden? Richie mumbled. As per usual with Richie, he wasn't really getting the main focus of the story. Fuck ratting on someone, right? Fuck goof. I hate those fuckers. Rat needs to get hurt, bro. Fucking rat needs to get it.

Jesus, Richie, go on the nod or something, would you? You're a waste of skin. Hutch looked dangerously displeased. Richie grinned a big goony grin and whispered. Fucking rats, though. Hutch frowned him thunderously, then continued. So tags or rags or whatever, hears Bulldogs say that he wants off the watch. His boss asks him why, and he won't say.

Just that he's tired and doesn't like watching the kid. Boss asks if he wants a partner, and Bulldog says, nope, he just wants off the goddamn watch and that's that. So the head screw huffs and puffs and blows him off. He gives Bulldog some shitty speech about not wanting to abruptly change everyone's schedule for one fucking guy, and how if he did do that, little Johnny wouldn't see his daddy up in the fucking stands at his next ballgame, and they would fuck him up for life. You know, gilting the fat prick and all that sort of thing.

Then he tells Bulldog no and sends him on his way. So Bulldog went home, and he drank. Egg most of a bottle of whiskey. Then stuck his service pistol in his mouth and pulled the fucking trigger. Nikki Roach the allegedly slobbered on joint and blew out a tremendous lungful of smoke. There was no way that the smell wasn't rolling through the whole goddamn pod by then, but none of us were concerned about it. If everyone was behaving themselves, the COs would leave us to our vices in peace. The situation was volatile enough already.

Mikey piped up and said, It's a sad thing, you know, when one of us strings ourselves up or gets his hands on a razor blade, no one gives a shit. The hacks laugh at you because your bowels let go and you shit yourself when you died.

And that's your obituary. Life goes on and no one gives a second thought. But these assholes sticks a gun in his yapper and blows his fucking brains out the top of his head. And hell, suddenly he's a hero. There was even a big article in the local paper

about how the stress of being a corrections officer causes depression and blah, blah, blah. Sensitive souls can't handle the gritty reality of working with drugged out convicts. It was kind of laughable, really. Whoever wrote that article didn't know Bulldog personally. That's for fucking sure. But the newspaper didn't mention nothing about what actually drove the piggy to pull the trigger and ventilate his own skull.

Hell no. No mention of the kid at all. The kid was the warden's nasty little secret, because they still didn't know who the hell the kid was or where he came from. And one way or another, the creepy little bastard was making people dead. All they had to go on was an old court document that read like a whole. A passing mention in sanitation report and a black and white picture of someone who looked like the kid but couldn't possibly be the kid. I was suddenly aware that I was getting a bit freaked out.

In the soft red gloom, stoned out of my tree, every word that Mikey and Hutch uttered seemed frighteningly plausible. I cleared my throat and announced, I gotta tell you guys, this is a fucked up story. I'm getting creeped out down here. Hutch blinked down at me with an inebriated surprise. "'Shit, I forgot that you were even down there. "'Quide little fucker, ain't he? "'More bubbly in your cup, my friend?'

"'I still hadn't managed to finish my first helping of the vile stuff. "'I shook my head and finished up Nicky's duby instead. "'Mike lapsed into silence, and we were silent with him. "'Even Ritchie. "'In the silence, something dawned on me. "'I said, "'Hey, Mikey, when they brought the kid to a different jail "'and walled him up after they couldn't execute him,

That was this place, wasn't it? When you guys first saw him, he wasn't a new fish at all. The kid was the oldest con in the entire joint. This one's pretty smart, Mikey. Compared to Richie, he's a fucking scholar. We should make him our treasure or something. What do you think? We ain't got nothing to treasure here, you old man.

Not in this fucking shit hole. Mikey poured himself another shot of the eye-watering concoction in the bag. Yeah, you got her, buddy. According to Belly Tremont, he was right underneath this very building. He let out a raspy sigh and hoisted aloft his Dixie cup of Hooch. To Belly Tremont, I sincerely hope God took it easy on you. How'd he die? Nick said, and Mikey flashed that humorless smile again.

Ah, not long after Bulldog ate some lead, we woke up to the sound of gunshots in the middle of the night again. They found Billy Tremont dead in the CO's locker room. His brains and bits of his skull were sliding down the wall beside his body like snails. The coroner declared that it was another suicide. But here's the thing. They found five chunks of lead embedded in the wall, all at chest height and one. in his brain. There was a full cup of coffee spilled on the floor beside him, and he still had a vacation request clutched in his free hand. Mikey leaned back against the wall and let out a scornful gust of air. So, according to the official report, here's Billy sipping on a fresh coffee,

just about to go to the office and request some vacation time, when suddenly, right then and There, with no warning of reason, he decides to blow his fucking brains out. Oh, but before he does that, he fires all the bullets in his service pistol into the wall, except for the one he fires through his own temple. That's a hell of an odd way to commit suicide, don't you think? Nick looked disturbed. The kid came for him. That's what happened, isn't it?

He appeared very young and very vulnerable in the dim crimson light. His face unlined and guileless. It got out of its cell and... It was coming for him. The cop tried to shoot it, then turned the gun on himself before it could... get at him. I can't say for sure, Nicky. The only guy who can is 13 years in his grave.

Remy tentatively cleared his throat from the top bunk. You said something to Hutch about the power going out? before and something that happened when it did. What were you talking about? Nah, maybe we shouldn't get into that tonight. Well, might as well tell him the rest. Gone this far, haven't we? A week after Billy bit the dust, a storm rolled in and knocked the power out,

clear across the county. We were all hurried into ourselves and told to shut up and fucking behave. A lot of the hacks couldn't make it into work that night. On account of the roads being all fucked up with accidents and torrential rain and shit, so the bosses who did make it to work were all carrying heavy firepower. They made it clear that they weren't going to fuck around as somebody got out of hand. Right around midnight, I heard a shotgun go off somewhere on the other side of the pen. Can't mistake that sound if you're familiar to it.

I was wide awake and on my feet in a heartbeat. Then, sort of muffled and far away, I heard screaming. There was a boss standing nearby myself and over his radio my voice was squirmed. walking. He's out. He's out of his cell and he killed Amesley. He's ripping everyone apart. Get your asses over to solitary now. The hack took off running and I turned to Johnny Franzini, but he stole the words right out of my mouth. He said, the boy, he's loose. This is bad. It was darkened there, but I'm pretty sure I saw Johnny cross himself. Mikey's eyes glittered at us from the semi-darkness, glassy from the dream. Glassy from the

drink and wide from the memory on his lips. There was a second gunshot, and then a whole lot more. They echoed and boomed and scared as shitless. When they tapered off, we heard more screaming. It sounded like animals at a slaughterhouse, squealing and bucking while they breathed their last, you know. me and my celly we fucking hid in the corner

with a mattress in front of us I ain't ashamed to say it we didn't know what was happening just that the hacks had tried to shoot something and they didn't fucking succeed I'm not afraid to admit it I was shitting my pants

I heard feet come slapping against the smith and then three hacks sprinted past our cell they weren't just running they were fucking sprinting hauling ass like like Olympians. I've seen their faces for a second and they were wild with fear. I've never seen anyone look like that before or since. Everyone was hollering at them as they passed, asking them what the fuck was going on? They didn't answer. Didn't even hear us. They just ran on by and kept

going. After a few minutes, a fourth guy comes along and he's limping real bad, using his rifle as a crutch. He got left behind, I guess. The hack was looking over his shoulder a lot and sort of jog hopping as fast as he could manage. He was leaving a trail of blood behind him. The hack's uniform was shredded and torn on one side of his body, flapping around like rags. I yelled at him. Hey, what the fuck happened to you guys? What's going on? And he stopped in front of our cell. I could see the guy a little better now. And I wished I had to be. It was Amesley. He wasn't dead after all. At least not yet. His right arm had been shredded to almost nothing. I mean, it was just a few flapping pieces of meat and stringy shit oozing

blood and barely holding the bones together. His ripe thigh was missing huge chunks of meat too and most of the foot. The guy's face was gray from blood loss. His eyes were like a doll's, like twin pieces of round murky glass. He was in shock. He moved his mouth trying to find some words. Then Sid, I think I'm dying. Then he started hopping again. There was a puddle of blood on the floor where he had stopped.

Okay, that's enough. Remy said. His voice quivered a little. I don't want to hear anymore. I don't remember asking if you did. Mikey rasped. Remy pursed his pained lips. and was silent.

Hutch continued. I heard something else coming. It sounded like something running on all fours, something with claws. I backed up against the wall as far away as I could go and Johnny cowered down into his bunk with his blanket pulled up around his face. It came in fast and ripped past myself,

just a fucking blur of arms and legs, and about ten seconds later I hear Amesley start wailing like a siren. It was awful. Those were death screams, man. Nothing can force a living creature to let out such awful fucking sounds. It took me a moment to understand that Amesley wasn't just screaming. He was saying something. He was saying, Mommy, it's eating me.

Mommy, it's eating me. Then I realized that I was screaming right along with him. So was Johnny. The whole part was screaming. You remember that, Mackie? All of us. Two hundred murderers and stick-up men fucking screaming in unison like little girls. I will never forget that.

Not ever. The hack finally stopped making noise, and we all did too. You could almost taste the terror in the air, sharp and bitter. I could smell Amesley's blood. That coppery smell that gets in your throat and makes you want a wretch. It was so quiet, silent as a tune. You could have heard a pin drop. And then, slowly, so slowly a figure comes strolling into view on the range.

It was the kid. He was red from head to toe, completely covered in blood and guts and shreds and shreds. of stuff that kept sliding off him and dropping onto the floor. He wandered right down the middle of the range, and he was carrying Amesley's head by the hair, dangling beside his leg as he walked. I watched him as he passed by, and I didn't breathe. Not once did I even fucking dare to breathe. The kid ambles on up to the hack shack, just as casual as he can.

be and he puts amesley severed head right up on the ledge of the window. Then he walked out into the middle of the range, raised his arm, and pointed at all of us. Each individual cell, like he was marking us, each and everyone, marking us for death. When he was done, the kid walked back the way he came and he disappeared. From view. That was the last anyone ever saw of him. He was just gone. There was a full minute of silence.

Finally I spoke up. Why the fuck did I never hear anything about this before? How? This should have been everywhere. The news, TV crime shows, fucking everywhere. Nick chimed in and said, I never heard nothing about this either and used to love those fucking crime shows. No. heard anything about that, but you might have heard something about a prison riot.

According to a few newspapers, the cons took advantage of the power outage and went apeshit for a few hours. Most of the guards on duty died trying to stop us, or so the story goes. The government funded a swell new electronic locking system, all because of what happened that night. I thought about it for a moment and then said, I don't know. What don't you know? Huh? I'll fucking tell you the rest, how's that?

Hutch glared down at me, and his narrowed eyes slammed phantom punches into my face. I froze. The three hacks that were seen running for their lives, they ran right into the arms of the SWAT team, who just got on the scene with their guns drawn. The cops busted through the gate, and they found what was left of Amesley first. They ignored our hollering. and followed the blood trail. They found the rest of them in the hallway

that runs down the middle of solitary, lying in a raw heap with the blood congealing in a pool beneath the bodies like gravy. All the cell doors had been ripped away from their hinges and the cons inside had been torn into pieces. From what I heard, it took a crime scene clean-up crew

six days to clean out that wing. And even after that, the cons and the hacks were fined-up bits of flesh and for months on end. We told you what happened, and you can believe it or not, I don't give a fuck, and neither does Mikey. Ask around if you wanna.

There's some long time I see that might talk about it, if he give them something to loose their lips. Once again, I don't give a fuck. This whole part had nightmares for a long, long time. I'm probably going to have them to the day I die, and I doubt I'm the only one. There is something within these, Fucking walls that looks human, but isn't.

It's something that you don't want to meet. And believe me, you better hope you never do. Hutch stopped talking. Then, as the hour was late and we were all pretty messed up, the silence soon turned to sleep. I recall dreaming of a fair-haired young man who stood amongst us as we slept, silent as a shadow. His eyes were completely black in the feeble glow. of the emergency lights, his expression, vulp and hungry. I remember that in that dream, I was very afraid that the boy would sense that I was not

actually asleep. If he discovered that I was awake, he'd devour me. I remember this quite clearly. We awoke early in the morning to the pitiful sounds of a junk-sick Richie, dry heaving into the toilet. The lights were back on and the lockdown was over. Richie wasn't the only one who was feeling like shit that morning. We were all in pretty rough shape, especially us floor folk.

Sleeping in a sitting position on the cold concrete makes for a stiff, painful morning. None of us had much to say. We all sat and smoked and waited for the hacks to do the morning headcount. I wondered if pounding hangovers weren't the only reason for that. I suspected that I wasn't the only one whose sleep had been disturbed by the fair-haired specter, a thing that should have ceased to walk the earth years before, but had not. a thing with a terrible appetite. The cops finally came around and let us out of our cages.

They pointedly did not perform the morning cell check. If they had, there simply wouldn't have been enough cells in solitary to confine all the rulebreakers. We all trooped off to stand in Chowline, except Richie, who opted to stay behind, and undoubtedly indulge in a snore or two. And that's pretty much where this story ends. Well, almost. I was released a year early for good behavior. During the rest of my time there, most of Mikey's crew were paroled, either through the front door or the back.

Richie was the first one to get wheeled out the back way. Then, eight months later, Coltrane's skull was pounded into a new and messy format, and he followed Richie out the back door. Six months before I was on caged, Big Rob Hutch had a heart attack while walking up the stairs that led to the tier above ours. He fell backwards, clutching his chest, and was dead before he somersaulted over the last few steps and landed at the bottom. So for a while, it was just me, Mikey, Nick, and a few casual homeboys.

It got boring. Crew unravelled at the seams, and by the time I was paroled, it had ceased to exist. A few months after my divorce was finalized, I got nostalgic one night and decided to try to find Mikey online. Soon enough, I did. his obituary. He died in hospital after a short illness, not long after I was released. Remy was also deceased, the victim of a shower room, rape, and stabbing. And Nicky, had discovered that he was in a mental institution. I visited him in there once. I'd rather be in

jail any day. Most of the patients I saw there were zombies, chemically bitch-slapped into subservience by their meds. There were a few others who were just strange. Their gaze made me feel unsafe. And for Christ's sake, I did time in a federal penitentiary. I was shown to where Nikki sat by himself at a table, and he instantly recognized me. We greeted each other like old friends and made small talk, just like anyone would. He seemed completely normal to me. I didn't understand why he was there until I mentioned Hutch. What do you think happened to Hutch exactly? I asked him, and his relaxed grin suddenly became a twisted grimace of fear. He seized me. by the front of my jacket and hauled me close, and his eyes burned bright with the fire

of insanity. He hissed. The kid pushed him down the stairs. It wasn't a fucking heart attack. That's a cover-up. The kid got Mikey too. It ain't everything but his head. It left his head on his fucking pillow.

The orderlies grabbed Nicky and pried him off of me, and they dragged him away while he screamed and flailed and twisted in their iron grip. I watched this with an open mouth and my heart pounding. Then I went home and got very, very drunk. Somewhere in those prison walls, there is a thing but hungers, and sometimes it feeds. I don't expect you to believe this any more than I did, but you know what? On nights like this, with the wind howling and the fine hair standing up on my neck, I couldn't care less what you believe.

And if you were ever unfortunate enough to meet him face to face, well, I'll bet the kid would. couldn't care what you believe either.