The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E25

Episode Date: January 25, 2015

It's episode 25 - the Season Finale of Season 4. We have two epic tales for you this week about storytellers recollecting disturbing events. Trigger Warnings "Copper Canyon" written by C.K. Walker and read by The NoSleep Podcast Players. (Story starts at 00:06:30) "New Fish" written by T.W. Grim and read by David Cummings, Peter Lewis, Mike DelGaudio, and Rock Manor. (Story starts at 00:48:30) Click here to discover C.K. Walker's novel, "Cold Thin Air". Click here to discover T.W. Grim's novel, "Tripping Over Twilight". The NoSleep Podcast Players are: David Cummings, Jessica McEvoy, Peter Lewis, Corinne Sanders, David Ault, Alexis Bristowe, Mike DelGaudio, Nikolle Doolin, Rock Manor, Susan Knowles, Otis Jiry, Tisha Boone, Brian Mansi, Rima Chaddha Mycynek, Sammy Raynor, Nichole Goodnight, and C.K. Walker. Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone "New Fish" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski The NoSleep Podcast uses the PSE Hybrid Library exclusively for its sound design. This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2014. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Warning, this is a podcast of horror fiction. It is intended for a mature adult audience. The stories presented here are intended to disturb. They are likely to contain death, graphic violence, explicit sex, including imagery of sexual violence, hate crimes, blasphemy, or other themes and images that disturb. We assume by your listening that you wish to be disturbed for your entertainment. If there are themes that you cannot deal with in fiction that are too strongly personal to you, please do not listen. If you feel that any particular episode is moving in a direction you are not comfortable with,

please do yourself a favor and turn it off. In other words, brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's time to give into your fear. There will be no... Grace yourself for the No, I don't think it's an emergency, but I passed her, and she's going about 25 miles per hour in a 65 mile per hour zone. She just has this, like, blank look on her face. She needs to get off the road because she keeps crossing the middle line. She looks really out of it.

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 surgeon's, throat just like a goddamn wolf. It's episode 25, the final episode of season four. Welcome to the finale. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have, let me count, one, two. We have two tales for you this week, but what a pair

of stories they are. They both feature people recounting events of the past through their own storytelling. And as you'll surely get, the tales they have to tell are deeply disturbing. I must say this has certainly been an exciting season for the podcast, one that will be remembered for some major turning points in the show. It was during this season that I took a big risk and made this podcast my full-time job.

And then I and all the show's collaborators took another risk by trying to produce one of these shows every week. For the most part, I think this season has been a great success, and I can't wait to see what's going to happen in season 5. One of the things I wanted to do with this final episode was to celebrate the many people who have made this show what it is. To that end, I have invited two of our most popular authors to share their stories with us. And to bring their stories to life, I have invited 15 of our most prolific narrators to join us for the finale. And as always, scoring this episode is the unsung hero of the podcast, my musical collaborator, Brandon Boone. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Without Brandon, we couldn't do weekly shows.

And without all our other contributors, this show simply wouldn't be worth listening to. So it's great to have everyone with us for the finale. Our authors this week are C.K. Walker and T.W. Grimm. Not only are these two amazing writers who have had their stories featured on the show in the past, but they both have e-books which I cannot recommend highly enough. C.K. Walker, author of such tales as Paradise Pine and Room 733, has released her first anthology entitled Cold, Thin Air. If you're a fan of the podcast, you simply must own this book. and as an extra special trait,

Ms. Walker is making a cameo on her own story, lending her voice to the narration. I've mentioned T.W. Grimm's great new book in the past. Tripping over Twilight is a gritty and compelling collection of stories which don't just send a shiver down your spine, they inject it right into your spinal fluid with a rusty needle. Grim's stories are hard-boiled and ready to take you to the edge. This episode will conclude with his epic tale set within the walls of a penitentiary.

You really must include this master storyteller on your Kindle or e-book reader. Please check the show notes for links to where you can purchase these great e-books for just a few dollars. They are truly worthy of your support. And before we start, I want to make a couple of quick announcements about season five. As always, season pass five is only 1999 for 25 full-length episodes and three exclusive bonus episodes. And yes, the Pay What You Want feature will be in place for season five as well. So thank you to everyone who has listened to and worked on the podcast during season four. Now settle in as I'm joined by narrators Jessica McAvoy, Peter Lewis,

Corinne Sanders, David Alt, Alexis Bristow, Mike Delgado, Nicole Doolin, Rock Manor, Susan Knowles, Otis Jiry, Tisha Boone, Brian Manzi, Rima Chathamisenik, Sammy Rayner, Nicole Goodnight, and C.K. Walker, as we present the season four finale of the No Sleep Podcast. In our first tale, we meet a married couple who have brought their family into the city to celebrate the anniversary of some close friends. But as C.K. Walker's tale unfolds, we realize that there is far more to the story than meets the eye. Multiple witnesses describe the events which occurred on the highway that fateful day. These are events which took place in Arizona, in a place. place known as Copper Canyon. 723, 2011. Transcript of call from Witness R.L.

120 p.m. I need to report an accident. Somebody, a car, just went over the barrier on the I-17. Northbound. Yeah, we're outside of Camp Verde in Copper Canyon. I'm walking towards the month. Marker. There's, uh, it looks like 282. How many vehicles are involved? I think it's, uh, oh, fuck. Did you hear that? Whatever ran off the cliff just exploded. Oh, there's smoke coming up over the side of the

mountain. We've got someone on the way. 723, 2011. Transcript of call from witness D.W. 122. Yeah, an SUV just went over the cliff. The car's on fire and there are people screaming. It's fucking chaos out here. Is this northbound 17 just south of Camp Bairde? Yes. People are trying to get down the cliff. Can you see any injuries, ma'am? Yes, there's people. There's someone in the ravine outside. the car. There, oh my God, there's kids. There's kids and an adult, a woman, I think. Is anyone injured? No, they're, they're all dead. Friday. I leaned back against my truck and took a few deep drags of my cigarette before snubbing it out on the tire and flicking it under the car next to me. Stella should be pulling up with the kids any minute, and she'd flip her shit if she saw me smoking.

As I watched for headlights coming around the corner of the hotel parking lot, I popped a breath mint and took a swig of water. Phoenix was hot in July, oppressively hot. And even though the sun was almost down, I couldn't last out here much longer. While it was a nice escape from my frigid hometown of Flagstaff in the winter, Phoenix left much to be desired in the summertime. I tried to come down as infrequently as possible during the summer months, but sometimes work made that impossible. I always hated leaving the mountains. Even though the valley was only two and a half hours away from Flag, it may as well have been a thousand miles. My small mountain town and the sprawling desert city might as well be different countries altogether.

I saw the headlights of Stella's silver Mazda peek around the corner of the building, and I pushed myself off the truck. She pulled into a nearby space, and I smiled as I went to greet her. I could tell by the look on her face when she got out that she was worn down. How was the drive? I asked her as I opened the back door to let Aiden and Wyatt out. Long, you know I hate that drive. I don't know how you do it so often. I laughed. Well, that's what I get paid for. A necessary evil to keep my family living in luxury. Dad, do I have to go tonight?

Aiden yelled from the trunk of the car where he was trying. in vain to pull his overnight bag out of the jostled mess of luggage. What, you don't like dressing up? He made a face at me. I hate it. Plus, there's not going to be other kids there. That's not true. Danny and Paul's kids will be there.

They're girls. They don't count. You'll have your brother. Dad, he's only three. Aidan. Stella yelled at, as she propped the door into the hotel open. Quit complaining and get your brother inside.

What's the room number, Matt? Three, two, three. Doors open. Aidan took his brother's hand and walked him inside and down the hall. When Stella and I were alone, I eyed the trunk with confusion. Why so many bags? You know we're only here for tonight, right? Yes, Matt, I know that. Stella rubbed her temples.

You feeling okay? Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired. This heat probably isn't helping either. Do you want to go inside? I'll get the bags. No, I'll help. Have you seen Danny and Paul yet this week? Not yet. They've been busy. Danny and Paul were very close friends of my wife and I.

The only reason. and Stella and the kids were even in Phoenix was to attend their 10th anniversary dinner this evening. I'd been here all week working on campus. As much as I loved our friends, I couldn't wait to depart in the morning for higher elevations and cooler temperatures, even with Danny and Paul's three daughters in tow.

Stella had graciously offered to watch their kids while they spent the next week in Mexico. Do you have an exedron, hon? Yeah, inside. Is your head hurting again? Just a bit. Hmm. You've been tired and nauseated a lot in the past few days, Stelle. Are you sure you're okay? Yeah, I've just been getting a lot of headaches lately. 7.23, 2011.

Eyewitness account of KB. 10.23am. I don't know why I noticed it. Maybe just because of it. was sitting there for so long. It was a blue suburban 2009 or 2010 model maybe, and it was parked on the side of the highway outside of the New River just idling. I had to take multiple trips in and out of New River that morning for work, and that truck probably sat there for 25 minutes. It barely fit on the shoulder, even though it was parked right up against the guardrail. It was definitely a road hazard. I was planning to check on the car the next time I went out, but by the time I got back, it was gone.

723, 2011. I witness account of L.L. 1101 a.m. I was in the far right lane getting off of northbound 17 at exit 144 in Black Canyon City. His blue suburban suddenly merges over two lanes and cuts me off. It was so sudden I was surprised it didn't roll. I got pretty angry and laid on my horn. I was going to pull up next to the truck at the stop. But I saw a little kid's in the car, so I just kept driving.

The woman in the driver's seat didn't even look at me. She looked so dazed. I'm not even sure she heard my horn. Friday. You look amazing, Stelle. My wife, after eight years of marriage, was still one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. Not that she believed it, of course. In fact, I was pretty sure she never had.

Stella was a few years older than me, and I knew that had always bothered her. When I first met my wife, she was a quiet, nervous girl who still lived at home with her parents. We met at an engagement party for a mutual friend, and I used the next few months to slowly nudge her out of her shell. It didn't take me long to realize that Stella was already in love with me by the time I'd formally met her. I married my wife a year later and got her pregnant immediately. Stella was over the moon. All she'd ever wanted was to be a mother. She told me the day of Aden's birth was the happiest day of her life.

Maybe that's what she needs. I mused as I watched my wife lather her arms with hotel-supplied vanilla-scented lotion. Maybe another baby would make her happy again. Stella had fallen into a sort of depression in the last year and refused to go to the doctor. I did the best I could to make the good times great and the bad times more tolerable for her. Did you hear me, babe? You look stunning. I'm glad you still think that. You know I've always thought that.

Stella finally looked away from the mirror and gave me an impish smirk. Would be nice if you showed me physically more often. She winked. I sighed and walked over to wrap my arms around her lotion slick shoulders. God knows we hadn't been intimate in months. And I knew that a sensitive girl like Stella must be going crazy, thinking I was falling out of love with her or some other nonsense. Well, if we didn't have five kids in the house over the weekend,

I trailed off and gave her my most seductive smile in the mirror. She frowned. You just always seem to have an excuse, Matt. If you're not working late on campus or down in Phoenix, I just don't understand why you get pulled down to that campus so much when you teach at the Flagstaff campus. I dropped my arms from her shoulders and ran a hand through my messy hair. Stell, I've told you, I'm helping out the chemistry department down here. I have to continue to do that if I want tenure.

Stella walked away from me with a dismissive wave. Boys! She yelled, knocking on the door to our adjoining room with the kids. Aidan, is Wyatt dressed? Bring him in here. We're leaving for dinner and a few. 7.23, 2011. Eyewitness account of Officer J. Pendlow.

Badge number 2881. 1127 a.m. I had a driver pulled over in Black Canyon City on Squall Valley Road in the shoulder of the westbound lane. As I was running his driver's license, I noticed a dark blue 2009 Chevy Suburban stopped on the dirt road off Maggie Mine Road leading to the abandoned dog track. Plate number 22D4N12. The back bumper was heavily dented and the passenger side of the vehicle was sideswiped. A woman had the back door open and was leaning against the vehicle's frame, talking to someone in the back seat. I heard yelling coming from inside the vehicle. The woman was, but the one of the one, the one

The woman stumbled back a bit and then climbed into the back seat of the suburban. She appeared to be distressed. I intended to go investigate the vehicle when I finished writing the traffic violation. The vehicle was gone by the time I pulled out some minutes later. I searched the area, but I believe the vehicle was back on the highway by then. 723-2011. Eyewitness account of ES 1127 AM. I was pulled over for. running a stop sign, and I was texting my wife while the officer was back running my plates.

I looked up and saw a woman and a maybe nine-year-old girl standing outside the car. The woman was trying to walk forward, and the girl was pushing her back, trying to get her to sit down. At one point, the girl got back into the car, and the woman slid down the car to the ground. She looked really out of it. Then all of a sudden she got a sort of second wind and sprung up and walked around the other side of the car, jerked the door open, and started yelling at the girl inside. I could hear a couple kids in there crying. She had her hand in the car trying to reach someone. Then she crawled into the back seat and about a minute later the car left. Friday. I shook Paul's hand as I grabbed a scotch off the bar.

Congrats, old man. Ten years is quite an accomplishment in this day and age. Well, you're right behind me there, Matt. Very true, I said, glancing over at our wives who were talking in the corner. But loving a woman that long is so easy when she's so beautiful. I saw her laugh then and admired the bar. boisterous rise and fall of her chest, the swell of her breasts emerging slightly from the low-cut, glittering neckline of her gown. Even though she was so torn right now, I hoped she knew how much

I loved her. Thick as thieves, those two, Paul said, chuckling, watching the scene beside me. Ever since college. Worse than sisters. I nodded as Danny picked up her youngest, Ava, and handed the squealing one-year-old to my wife. Stella laughed louder than I had heard in the past year and bounced little Ava on her hip. I smiled as I watched her. Another baby may be the solution after all. Uncle Matt?

My attention turned to the lovely young lady standing. ending behind me, Paul's oldest. Izzy was intelligent like her mother, but the spitting image of her father. The two had always been close. Paul put his arm around his daughter and kissed her on the head. Hello, Izzy. Are you excited to spend the weekend in Flagstaff? I think Aunt Stella is going to take you hiking tomorrow.

Yeah, I'm excited. Um, Maya keeps trying to pull people's wine glasses off the table, and he's already spilled sprite on himself. Ugh, that boy. Thanks for the heads-up, Biz. I'll go get that little outlaw. I found my son sitting in between Paul and Danny's other daughter, Emma, and his big brother. We were just holding him here. He was trying to drink the wine. Emma said, confidently as Aidan. nodded. Is that so?

Well, he was trying to grab it. I think he was going to drink it. Yeah, he was. He was, Dad, but I stopped him. I shook my head lightheartedly and looked around for Stella. She was now sitting at a table chatting and laughing with Paul's sister, not a care in the world. I watched her for a moment and frowned. My wife wasn't one to neglect the whereabouts of her children, especially our youngest.

Most of her days were spent following Wyatt around the world, making sure he was safe and happy. It was very unlike her. I picked Wyatt up from the bench. Okay, boys, it's time to start calming down. We have an early morning, so I think we'll head out in about 20 minutes. I want to stay in play with Emma. Aidan stood up and crossed his arms.

Well, I thought you didn't like girls. I teased. Dad, stop! Aiden yelled so loud that people on the other side of the room turned to look. He ran out into the hall, his face reddening with every step. Emma and I both laughed and looked over again, at Stella, hoping she was laughing too, but she wasn't. Stella was sitting down at the suddenly empty table with her head in her hands,

rubbing her temples. 723-2011. Transcript of call from Witness C.K. 12.08 p.m. Hi, yeah. Sorry, I didn't know who to call, but I thought 911 probably wasn't it. There's a truck Yeah, I'm about five miles north of Cordes Lakes on the I-17 And there's a truck in the left lane going slow

Like really slow I'm sorry ma'am No, I don't think it's an emergency But I passed her and she's going about 25 miles per hour In a 65-mile-per-hour zone She just has this blank look on her face She needs to get off the road Because she keeps crossing the middle line

She looks really out of it Would you like me to put you No, it's fine. I'm way past her now. I just thought someone should know about it, but yeah, I guess I don't need to report it at this point. I think. She's acting really weird and scary. I don't understand what she's saying when she talks and why it won't stop crying and we're scared. Ava fell asleep. She won't listen to me.

Dad, I told her to call you, but she wouldn't. So the last time she just stopped driving, I took her phone. Please come get us or send Uncle Matt to come get us. I don't know what to do, and I'm really scared. and Stella keeps hitting some of her car, and I saw her throw up, and he isn't driving right. Friday. We'll swing by around eight tomorrow and grab the girls. What time is your flight?

Uh, 10.30. But the earlier you get to our house, the better. Danny and I wouldn't mind some alone time. Paul leaned back on his heels and winked at his wife. All right, all right. Matt and I know how it goes. Stella giggled and leaned her head against my shoulder. How does 7.30 sound?

Hmm. Paul growled, wrapping his arms around Danny's waist and nuzzling her ear. I'd known my wife so well and for so long that I detected the instant she felt uncomfortable and intimidated. She laughed nervously and I could feel. feel the envy radiating offer. Stella had always wanted the sort of open affection, no apologies relationship that Danny and Paul shared. It had just never been that way with us.

I opened my mouth to break the tension, but Stella spoke first. You guys are like kids. Having sex all the time and in Mexico, no less. Maybe you'll babysit for us some weekend and we can go to Mexico. Still, are you drunk? You're terrified of Mexico. You know I don't drink, and I'd risk being kidnapped in Mexico. Matt would protect me.

I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her to me. Girls, in the car. Paul yelled to his daughters who were running around the empty parking lot. I swear, they're not usually this crazy. Paul shook his head. Oh, don't worry about it. We've got lots of room to run on our property. They're in safe hands.

723, 2011. Eyewitness account of J.S. 1237 p.m. I was buying cigarettes at the Chevron and Cortes Lakes when I heard somebody slam on their brakes outside and punched the horn. I looked out the window and saw a blue SUV drive by, just as calm as can be, while the sky is. and a white pickup is yelling out his window at it. Then I was driving over to Wagner's, and I saw the same blue SUV going downstage coach trail. The driver pulled over to park the car on the shoulder

and then suddenly changed her mind or something and flipped a U-turn instead. The tires left tracks in the road. I could see some little kid's heads bobbing around through the back windshield. I decided to follow her because I thought maybe she was drunk. We see a lot of drunk drivers around. here. So I get in my car and follow her back down stagecoach. She starts speeding up as she gets

closer to the highway. I estimate she got up to about 75 and the limit on stagecoach is 40. I lost her when she ran the light at Oasis. I would have called 911 to report her, but I didn't have my phone. I'm calling to report a truck during the wrong way down in 69. You said the vehicle is going the wrong? Yeah, he's going north or south, sorry, in the northbound lane outside of Spring Valley. Yes. Can you describe the vehicle, sir? It's like a blue-colored SUV, a Tahoe, I think.

Can you tell me if the driver... Oh, shit. It just hit the guardrail. And it's still going. 723, 2011. Transcript of call from witness F.D. 1.11 p.m. I need to report a speeding truck on the I-17. You said it's speeding? Yeah, it's speeding. It's going at least 100 miles an hour.

Where are you on the interstate? I just passed the exit for the 169. He's about a half mile ahead of me. Is the vehicle in the southbound or northbound lane, sir? Northbound. It's headed into Copper Canyon. Saturday. Stella, wake up. We have to get the boys ready. She didn't move a muscle.

Baby, are you okay? Yeah, just another migraine. Stelle, we got to get you to the doctor. These chronic headaches worry me. No, I'm fine. Really. I'm fine. I already saw my doctor about it, and he said it's likely the start of menopause. I tried not to show the surprise on my face. I must have failed. Yes, Matthew, I'm going through menopause because I'm older than you. You knew that when you married me.

It's not that. I just thought that you're... Save it. Stella rolled away from me and buried her face in the pillows. Just go. Go? Yeah, just start heading home. I'll be right behind you. I just need to sleep for another half an hour.

I can't. We told Paul and Danny we would pick the girls up early. Fuck them. And fuck you for caring so much about their sex life. I got up from the bed and awkwardly straightened my tie in the mirror just to give myself something to do. It seemed I had been right about Stella's feelings of inadequacy last night. I'd made a move on her as soon as we'd gotten the kids to bed the night before.

I'd pulled her into me and slid my hands down her hips, then slowly pulled her shirt up over her head. I'd let my hand slip down into her lacy bra. I'd kissed her neck. She jerked away from me then, complaining that she suddenly felt nauseated. I believed her, too. Her face had grown pale, and her hands were shaking slightly as she unzipped her pants and threw them in the corner. Then she'd gone straight to sleep.

I really don't give a shit about their sex life, Stella. I care about being where we said we'd be when we said we'd be there. I'm sorry. It just hurts so much. Why don't I take the boys and go get the girls and then I'll come back here. It'll give you some time to sleep. No, it's fine. I'll take an exedrin and I'll go get the girls.

You go ahead and head north. Somebody needs to let the dogs out this morning. Okay, sweetie. Want me to take the boys? No, let them sleep in. Just take my car and leave me the suburban. Are you sure? I'm sure. I'll take the kids.

723-2011. Transcript from the interview of Danielle E. Grigg. Stella showed up just after 8 o'clock. She seemed normal. She came to the door. She was smiling. She picked up Ava and tickled her. I mean, she was just normal old Stella.

I didn't know. I couldn't tell anything was wrong. Excuse me, I am, sorry. I couldn't tell that anything was wrong with her. Paul came to the door with all the kids' bags and gave her a hug. She hugged him back. He walked all the luggage out to Matt's car, and I kissed and hugged my girls goodbye.

I'm sorry. I kissed my girls goodbye, and I held Eva for a minute. And then Paul kissed the kids goodbye. He talked with Izzy for a while because she was crying, and she didn't want to leave. Those two, they were like best friends. Then we put the kids in the car, and Paul and I said, hi to the boys.

Izzy, Ava, and Wyatt were in the middle row, and Emma and Aden were in the back. Then she, Stella, sorry, hugged us both and told us to have a safe flight. She seemed happy. She told the kids that they were going to have a Disney sing-along. Then she backed out of the driveway with my children, and I never saw them again. 23 2011. Transcript of call from witness, I.N. 116 p.m. Oh, God. Fuck. There's this, uh, there's a car that was in front of me, and it just went over the guardrail into the canyon. Just, oh God, he just, and went over. He didn't even slow down at all. I'm still going. Should I turn around?

On the 17, in the canyon. 723, 2011 I witness account of TN. 1.16 p.m. As soon as I saw the car go over, I stopped in the west shoulder of the road. I had noticed that truck earlier because it had been weaving in and out of traffic as it approached me. Something was definitely happening with the driver. She was really calm and steady, like real, oddly serene, almost oblivious to what was going outside of the car. She cut in front of me, but I was prepared for it, so I slowed down without a

problem. She didn't. She just kept going in that trajectory right over the side of the mountain. Other people started pulling over two, and we tried to get down the cliff, but it's a pretty sheer drop right there. Then about, well, when I guess we were about halfway down, the truck caught on fire. There were bodies all over the place. Little kids mostly. I've never seen anything like it. I saw photos of the accident on the news, but they were taken after the police had been there and cleaned up a bit.

When we first got down into the canyon, it was like looking into hell. All the bodies were still burning. Everyone was dead. Saturday. I made my first call to Stella's... cell phone at 1104. It rang for a while and then went to voicemail. This didn't worry me as my wife usually turned her cell phone on silent when she was driving through the mountains. That road had always made her nervous. At 1130 I called again and this time someone sent it to voicemail.

I still didn't worry too much. I'd talked to Danny before her first. I'd talked to Danny before her flight left that morning and she told me Stella hadn't come by to pick up the girls until 8.15 and that she'd planned to get the kids some breakfast before she got on the road. A two-hour drive would put her in close to 11, but my wife was a slow and careful driver. At noon, I started to pace around my office, trying Stella's cell phone off and on. By 1 p.m., I was a wreck. At 114, I got a frantic call from Paul about a voicemail he'd received from Izzy. I immediately called the police and reported my wife missing and the phone call from inside the car. A woman called me back after the longest 40 minutes of my life.

She told me there had been an accident and that they were sending someone to my house. Everything that made me human had suddenly been stripped away from me. Lost everything that day. Paul and Danny flew back from Cancun that night and got the news right when they landed. Paul had to be sedated at the airport. Danny was just numb. Someone brought me what was left of our personal effects from the crash. Emma's suitcase and Stella's overnight bag.

All the others had been destroyed in the accident. Stella's body was too badly burned to do any conclusive toxicology on her. No one had any idea what had happened to my wife, why she'd been behaving so strangely, or how she lost control of the car. The investigation went on until December of 2012, when the case was closed by the DPS. No one knew what happened to Stella,

but the general consensus, all evidence accounting, was that some sort of medical event had occurred on the day of the crash, possibly a stroke or a series of strokes. I fought hard to clear Stella's name in the press. They painted her as a drunk and a pill-popper. The media also compared her case to something that had happened in New York a few years earlier, the Schuller case.

But Stella didn't drink, ever, or take pills recreationally, and she loved her children more than the air she breathed. I hired a private investigator and a lawyer to help me get her body exhumed and retested. Afterward, I was told the results were similar to the first tests, but that this time the ME had ruled her secondary cause of death, quote, vehicle crash due to an unknown medical event. The press finally back. Paul killed himself just before Christmas the same year of the accident. Danny told me he locked himself in his office. every day and listened to Izzy's voicemail over and over. Until one day he hung himself from a crossbeam in his daughter's room.

Danny and I bonded deeply in our grief. We had both lost so much, almost everything. We talked and cried and suffered together for years. And all along, Stella's suit, Kay sat in my closet. I could never bring myself to unpack it, to unpack her from my life. But then Danny moved in with me and my soul began to mend. And for the first time since the accident, I could see ahead of the agonizing pain to a more tolerable existence. I was finally ready to let it all go, to let her go, to emerge from under the crippling darkness into a dull, muted light that I knew would grow brighter with time.

And so, one day, I opened the suitcase and found out what really happened to Stella that day. On top of my wife's neatly folded clothes was a note she had written to me in black marker. It was only six words, six short words that cast me back into hell never to return. I know about you and Danny. It was written on a liquor store receipt. Our season concludes with a tale from the peasant. pen of T.W. Grimm. A group of prisoners gather in a cell during a lockdown. As a storm swirls outside, the older cons recount a story to the younger prisoners about a strange con whose place

in the prison is the stuff of mysteries and nightmares. So just as the prisoners do, wrap yourself up tight in a blanket and prepare yourself just like any other. recent arrival to the penitentiary, or as they're known in the pen, new fish. 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 here except my goal. Old fish, and yours truly, the sweaty guy in his underwear. It was the gusting wind that 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 old 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 I started typing. I'm no storyteller, not like Mike. Nike 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 occasions when I'd served time in the county jail, there 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 day room and watch TV in relative silence. The only time that there would 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 sally 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 new arrivals 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. Cons see everything, and I mean everything, but they talk even more. My first sally 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 the nasty old fuck face down onto the floor and was whamming away on the back of his head and 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 gotten 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 sat down at Chow with my new Sally and some of his boys, no one objected. I had been checked and I'd passed the test. I wasn't a punk or a sissy. I could sit with the men. Yeah, it's 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 headcount and chow, off to work in the laundry. Chow, nap, workout, 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 the commissary and individual hand-rolled smokes. Some watched TV and others watched 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 boy. into rented cells or the showers, and they got some ass pussy while a homeboy held watch for the cops. And there was, of course, a lot of talk. Talk of family back home, women had and lost.

Of misdeeds proudly done. There were enough stories flying around that place to fill a library. My Sally 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 in all, a straight shooter who didn't fuck with the spike.

The thing was, he'd kill him. 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 murders of six people and was a suspect in 16 others. And I can well 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 person. 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 his 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 fucking 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 in 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 fucking 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 light.

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 rocked 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 this story. I was about a year into my 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, 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 fucked up, seven of us quickly heard it into his cell 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. up in our thin, scratchy blankets, like convict burritos. The blankets were gray and made of rough wool. Upon checking in to the razor wire in, 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. That's just the way it was. The old cons got to snuggle their asses into the relative comfort of the thin mattresses

that covered the squeaky spring slats, and in Coltrane's case, the old Con's bitch as well. 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. So I'm mopping up by where they keep the gurneys, and down the hall the doors open a bit, so I can 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, would you look at that? And then he starts gagged. and wretching. Then, get this, then he actually screams,

for real, he fucking screamed, and he yells, Jesus Christ, it's all over my fucking arm. He runs out of the room and down the other hall, and I'm like, what the fuck is that all 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 fuck, you gotta be kidding me. Then the smell hits me from all the way down that long ass hallway and it's putrid boys. It smelled like a combination of rotting flesh and an old shit house in August. I had to grab my nose and run the fuck out of there. Oh, the 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 fucking short straw. Fifteen 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 order. old man's orders. He was fresh-faced and physically soft. I occasionally wonder if he'd ever really known just how bad it could have been for him in there. Apparently, Stutters was getting checked for pokes and track marks pretty regular because he got busted so much for possession. So he started shooting in his ass, but not like in his ass cheek, you dig? I mean right into the wall of his rectum.

He was shooting it right inside his fucking asshole man. Can you imagine that? Well, pretty soon he developed a fucking horrible abscess. 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's skis. skinned over with a crust of white 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 fucker's ass, and I mean right fucking shut.

He was apparently going around like that for weeks, man. For real, weeks! Oh, it musta hurt like a bitch. So the doc saw something kind of bubbling out of the dead fucker's asshole, and he prodded at it with his scalpel and pop. Out gushes a metric fuckload of bloody green pus, full of dead bacteria and stinking like the devil's ball sack. Oh, fuck. That's just dirty, man.

Mikey groaned. Ben mimed throwing up all over Hutch. We were all wrinkling our noses in disgust and shaking our heads. Dirty was not nearly adequate for this disgusting image. That ain't it, though, my friend. No, that ain't it. The worst part was the fact that Studders had been bunged up with this fucking Puss balloon for a few weeks or so, you know? It stopped up his shit canal.

When the dock popped that thing with his scalpel, Oh, hell, it was a literal shitstorm. It spurred it out of his ass like a high-pressure hose. We regarded that image for a moment or two in stunned silence. I felt a bit ill. So fucking dirty. Mikey roared, and despite what I just heard, I had to laugh. Coltrane and the 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's hog leg, Coltrane was, in fact, the one who had turned Remy out in the first place, he'd finally stopped playing the part of a woman 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. Rianne 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 doc got shit on by a corpse?

said Richie in a slow and dreamy tone. It was pus-covered shit? That's fucked up, man. Hey, do you think that happens a lot to him? Or, like, was that the first time? Richie had snorted some hydromorphone earlier, and now he was somewhere in the clouds, floating around with a stoned grin on his face.

Richie, that's just fucking... Actually, it's a good question. Want some hooch, boys? I was just opening my mouth to say, fuck no, and then there was a pop, and everything was dark. The cons began yelling and hooting all across the pod, Both tears on both sides.

Big Rob yelled. Shut up, you fucking idiots. It's just a blackout for Christ's sake. Pipe the fuck down. And for a wonder, some of them actually did. The thing was, Big 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 light 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 guard standing there 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 had also been rendered unable to properly read a book. Yes, a number of the cons could actually read and did.

Or see your hand while playing cards, or even listen to the radio for Christ's sake. The hack was a dark figure swathed in dim red, his body language alert and poised for action. I'm pretty sure it was Robson who was the boss on hut duty that night. Robson was a dead-eyed, square-jawed 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, there 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 fuck 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. Ritchie broke the silence.

Man, I was getting real worried there for a minute. If the fucking goon squad busted in here and found all our 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. He 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 debts, weak and alone, Ritchie ended up bunking with some fellas from the top tier across from us. The Black Tear 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 word 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, Richie 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 gang rape, something must have finally snapped in Richie's head. His will to live crumbled and fell. Richie stayed behind while 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. You'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 the 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 J around, and when that one was wrong,

We approached, we passed another. Finally, Mikey spoke up and broke the silence. So, who's up for some Twilight Zone shit tonight? You remember the last time the power went out, Hutch? Hutch shot him a dark look, then did something very unusual for a hardened con. He shuddered. I want to tell the boys that story.

Oh, I don't know. Oh, man. Why not? Fuck, the lights are out, and the winds are howling out there. Perfect time for it. Okay, fuck it. Let's do it. Okay, boys, it's time for a scary story.

Crowd around the fucking 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 styrofoam cup of the 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 that we're full of shit, or you can go have a fucking sleepover with that asshole over in the hack shack. 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, oh, 12 years, I guess. say, Mikey? Yeah, for sure, at least that long. Back when these little punks were still given out hand jobs in juvie. Well, 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.

I guess I would have been about your age. He said, pointing down at me, So one day the fish tank had just been emptied out into the pod, and there's 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. Now I don't play no grab ass like Coltrane up there, but this kid, oh he was, oh 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 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 swig of the awful, cloying pruno, a noxious blend of fermented fruit, sugar packets, 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 guards were looking worried. A pretty kid like that can cause a lot of hard feelings between the bulls. 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-fucking haste. They kept him there for a few days, but the wolves didn't forget about him.

for a moment. All the time, they're asking about the kid to the trustees who had access to PC. They're asking if the kid's lonely. If he wants a candy bar or a fuckbook or a baggy of fucking horse or 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, none at all.

Just blank. Hallbrook 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 as Brookie 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 fuck 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 fucking awful. Who brewed this? His voice sounded dry and burnt. Our fine neighbors just down 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? Fuck, I think I'm going blind already. Hutch held out his cup, and Mikey poured him another glirk out of the plastic bag,

taking care to make sure that 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. It broke more than a few hearts 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 stick him back into PC for a 24-hour suicide watch. Even if he did come back to the pod 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 bullqueer who had taken Remmy's manhood and eventually transformed him into to something that he'd probably never wanted to be. Thinking about it now, I'm pretty sure he was, and I can't blame him for it. Rob told us,

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 at him, Hey, you hear that shit man? Oh, fuck, that's awful. And he answered, real matter of fact.

That boy, he had to know what was coming, hey? He's too pretty like a girl to be here in this place. He should have never come here. As if the guy had fucking 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 went to check on him, because money makes the fucking rules around here, not the warden where the government eats money. The sick fuck offered big coin for the kid, and some cold son of a bitch sold him without a second thought. Hutch nodded sourly. Hmm, hmm, money's a whore.

Ah, 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 apeshit 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 at 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 slowly walking towards the door of Brookie's cell with his club poise to bash his skull in, like he's trying to ward something off. He started yelling for the other hacks to get the fuck over there, Pronto. They all came thundering past with their keys jangling and their boots clomping, and then we all got ordered to step back into ourselves 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 Oldbrook, me and Johnny F. We'd assumed that he'd gone psycho on the new fish And cut the kid's throat while he was fucking him Or some 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. It was mostly gone, stripped right down to bloody sinew and bones. No skin or muscles left. Oh, it was fucking gruesome.

I kind of gasped out loud, and even-closed-nosed, crooked-nosed old Johnny Franzini had to look twice and say, what the fuck? Oh, the only way I knew it was him was the hair. A big greasy mop of it, like a caveman. The sheet cover in his 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 a lot of. another joint. We 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 by a cystic sore the size of a man's fist. Mikey and Hutch were telling a story, and we were living it. You know what I mean? We were right there.

Mikey said. Must have been five minutes later. The cops are rolling this crazy-looking thing down the block, and I'm like, what the fuck is that to my silly? But you don't know either. Before too long, they roll it past again, and I'm like, oh, shit, look at this. You ever seen Silence of the Lambs? The dolly cart thing that they saw.

strapped Anthony Hopkins into when they're moving him. Yeah, that's exactly what it was. And they've got the kid strapped into it, bite mask and everything. And the kid is just soaked in blood, man. It was dripping off his clothes, and I could hear it pattering on the floor behind him. It left a trail on the floor. They let us out for breakfast, about a half hour after that. But by then, it was almost lunch.

and we got served a fucked 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 fuck did the kid do to him? Most people thought that he must have gotten hold of Brookie's shiv somehow, then sliced the fucker's shit plight off, whittled him down right to the bone.

But Brookie was a really big dude. And the guy was a crazy motherfucker. How a skinny little bitch like that could have overpowered a bad dude like Holbrook so easy. Well, we didn'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 older guys sometimes do when holding in a big toke. Nasal and strangled. He gave Nikki the...

the thumbs up and blasted out smoke like a grizzled old dragon. Shit's pretty good, Nikki. Good score. Got to get some more of that. So yeah, the kid, he got rolled off to the hole on his 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 25, four-hour watch and the hole works, a couple trustees tried asking the hacks 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 sees enough. 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 open bag made my eyes water. Hutch smiled a little, an action with no real humor behind it. Well, tongues were wagon, as they tend to do, and pretty sweet. Soon people were saying that maybe the kid wasn't natural, that he did bookie 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 the Padre ended up selling his house and 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. Big Rob grunted. Yeah, Billy Tremont. And hauled hard on the joint, decimating it to a smoldering ember between his thick fingers. Yeah, him, Billy Tremont. 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 win and 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 also real good at getting you what you wanted for a price. Well, it's a fact that people love a 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 questions, Billy Tremont could. Billy laughed and tells him that he'd love to take their money, but he couldn't do what they would. 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 him. He narrowed his eyes and said to him, You guys don't think I tried to find out for myself already? Far as I can tell, the kid just sort of popped up into the fish tank out of thin air.

Looks to me like everyone just kept processing him along because no one wanted to admit that they didn't know who the fucking kid was. Call me a liar again, and I'll beat the fear of God in the... 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 bit 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, then said, So the guys gave up and said, Fuck it then. And 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'd 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 is all.

You pieces of shit got it. 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 Tremont'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 spent some time thinking on how 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 gun. guy an eight ball on top of what he already gave him if the guy could deliver the goods. The suit came back to him a few days later with the sniffles and a file folder that looked

older than the 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'd put himself in all kinds of. He said that he'd 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 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 the one the wolves would deliver. The guy shut his yap.

took his eight ball, and they parted ways. So in between drags of his 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-time pen, Billy said. You know, the kind you had to dip in a fucking inkwell and pat dry against a blotter so that shit didn't smear. That's how old the thing was. All the dates and the kid's name were scribbled out, Billy said, but he figured that the first documents in the folder were from the late 1800s.

Nick snorted. What? That ain't even possible. Mikey shrugged. It is what it is, Nicky. The transcript said that the kid had been charged with multiple murder, practicing satanic rights, cannibalism. arson, mayhem. He was only 16 years old when they'd 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 that it would be godly to let the kid live out the rest of his days in jail, seen as how 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 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. Coal train looked disturbed. Holy fuck. This is horror movie stuff.

I'm sorry, but you guys have got to be shitting us. Mikey shrugged again. Kind of wish I was, but I'm not. Not according to Billy Tremont anyway. Billy said that they stuck the kid in a loony bin for the criminally insane after he ate his sally, put him in a straight jacket. But at some point, the quack. 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 surgeon's throat, just like a goddamn wolf. Ripped it right out. There's no way that he should have still been conscious, let alone being able to snap those thick leather bands. but he was, and he did. Oh, the 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. They 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 asks 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 fart her a blessing. Why should I? So the cops beat on the kid, 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 fiddled with it and tried three more times, and each time the fucking door wouldn't swing open. They didn't know what to do. All the while, the kid was laughing and cursing at them and praise in the devil just to be 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 a 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. 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 it again, and the same shit happened again. By now, the people watching were getting spooked. The crowd of farmers and mill workers 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'd bet. When everyone was gone, the cops packed the kid back into the wagon because there was nothing else they could do.

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 thing over. Richie attempted to focus his eyes up at Mikey and asked, Can they really do that, man? Just put someone in a hole. and brick the fucker 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. I'm sure they could have done that. Who'd ever know? He lit another joint and passed it. So what, man? They just left the crazy little fucker there to die?

Richie appeared to be in the grip of a dubious species of moral outrage. 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 the boards off, and popped the door open. Do you know what he found?

A skeleton. Richie muttered. He was struggling to keep his eyes from sliding shut. 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 in disgust. Who slobbered on this shit? It's wet as fuck. Gross, man. Fucking gross. 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 part and stop your bitching.

Anyhow, that fucking prick, Bulldog, he was one of the least-loved hacks in the entire history of this joint. A real genuine, died in the wool piece of shit. He was still a few years out of retiring when this all happened, late 50s, I'd say. A huge, fat, red-faced motherfucker he was. Miener than fuck. 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 the change, you straightened up and stopped fucking around until it was gone. If that nasty old fuck was in a mood, well, you steered clear and you kept your big yapper shut. So they put this fucking 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, moutly fuck. either. There he was, night after night, just him and this creepy fucking kid all night long. Normally, this wouldn't have been very good for the Khan 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 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 guy named, uh, uh, tags or rags, some shit like that. I can't remember. Anyways, 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. Fucking rat on someone, right? Fucking goof. I hate those fuckers. Rats need to get hurt, bro. Fucking rats need to get... 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 at him thunderously, then continued. So, tags or rags or whatever, hears Bulldog say that he wants off the watch. Well, his boss asks him why, and he won't say.

Just that he's tired and he doesn't like watching the kid. Boss asks him 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 that,

little Johnny wouldn't see his daddy up in the fucking stands at his next ball game, and it 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 most of a bottle of whiskey, then stuck his service pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Nikki roached the allegedly slobbered-on joint and blew out a tremendous lung full of smoke.

There was no way that the smell of the dank wasn't rolling through the whole goddamn pod by now, 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 fucking thing, you know? When one of us string ourselves up or gets his hands on a razor blade, no one gives a fuck. The hacks laugh at you because your bowels let go and you fucking shit yourself when you died.

And that's your obituary. Life goes on and no one gives you a second thought. But this asshole sticks a gun in his yapper and blows his 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 ass fucking convicts. It was kind of laughable, really. Whoever wrote that article didn't know Bulldog, personally, that's for sure. But the fucking newspaper didn't mention nothing about what actually drove the piggy to pull the... trigger and ventilate his own skull. Fuck 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 fuck 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 horror book. a pass-and-mention in a 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 inebriated surprise. Shit, I forgot you were even down there.

Quiet little fucker, 80. 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 Nikki's duby instead. Mikey lapsed into silence and we were silent with him. Even Richie. 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 this entire joint. Ho-ho, this one's pretty smart, Mikey. Compared to Richie, he's a fucking scholar. Or we should make him our treasurer or something.

What do you think? We ain't got nothing to treasure here, old man, not in this fucking shithole. Mikey poured himself another shot of the eye-watering concoction in the bag. Yeah, you got her, buddy. According to Billy Tremont, it was right underneath this very building. He let out a raspy sigh and hoisted aloft his Dixie Cup of Hooch. To Billy Tremont, I sincerely hope God took it easy on you. How'd he die?

Nick asked, and Mikey flashed that humorless smile again. 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 he was a child. Here's the thing. They found five chunks of lead embedded in a 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 for him clutched in his free hand. 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, or reason he decides to shoot himself. But before he does that, he fires all the bullets in his service pistol into the wall, except for the one that 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. Can't say for sure, Nikki. The only guy who can is 13 years in his grave.

Remy tentatively cleared his throat from the top bunk. You said something to Hatch 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. 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 herded into ourselves and told to shut up and fucking behave. A lot of 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 if somebody got out of hand.

Right around midnight, I heard a shotgun go off somewhere on the other side of the other side of the pen. Can't mistake that sound if you're familiar with 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 my cell, and over his radio, a voice was squawking. He's out, he's out of his cell, and he's 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 dark in there, but I'm pretty sure I saw Johnny cross himself.

Mikey's eyes glittered at us in the semi-darkness, glassy from the drink and wide from the memory on his lips. There was a second gunshot, and then a whole lot more. The echoed scared us shitless. When they tapered off, we heard more screaming. It sounded like animals at a slaughterhouse squealing and bucking while they breathed their lap. Me and my cellie, we fucking hid in the corner with a mattress in front of us. 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 cement, and then three hacks sprinted past our cell. They weren't just running. They were fucking sprinting. hauling ass like Olympians. I 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. They 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 then 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 hadn't. It was Amesley. He wasn't dead after all, or at least not yet. His right arm had been shredded to all. nothing. I mean, it was just a few flapping pieces of meat and stringy shit oozing blood

and barely holding the bones together. His right 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 said, 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, and his voice quavered a little. I don't want to hear any more. I don't remember asking if you did. Mikey rasped. Remy pursed his painted lips and was silent. Hutch continued.

I heard something else coming then. 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 my cell, just a fucking blur of arms and legs, and about ten seconds later, I hear Amesley start wailing like a siren. Oh, it was awful. Those were death screams, man.

Nothing else can force a living creature to let out such awful fucking sounds. It took me a moment to understand that Eamesley wasn't just screaming. He was saying something. He was saying, Mommy, it's eaten me. Mommy, it's eating me. Then I realized that I was screaming right along with him. So was Johnny. The whole pod was screaming.

You remember that, Mikey? All of us, 200 murderers and stick-up men fucking screaming in unison like little girls. To ever forget that, 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 of blood, that coppery smell that gets in your throat and makes you want a wretch. So quiet, silent as a tomb, you could have heard a pin drop. And then slowly, so slowly, a figure comes strolling into view. the range.

It was the kid. He was red from head to toe completely covered in blood and guts and shreds of stuff that kept sliding off of 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. Did I even fucking dare to breathe? The kid ambles on up to the hack shack just as casual as could be, and he puts Amesley's severed head upon 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. I used to love those fucking crime shows.

No, you never heard nothing about that. But you might have heard. heard something about a prison riot. According to the 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 this for a moment, then said, I don't know.

What don't you know? I'll fucking tell you the rest. How's that? Hutch glared down at me, and his narrowed eye slammed phantom punches into my face. I froze. The three hacks that we seen running for their lives, they ran right into the arms of a SWAT team who had just gotten on the scene with their guns drawn. The cops busted through the gate, and they found what was left of Aimsley 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 to pieces. From what I heard, it took a crime scene. seen clean-up crew six days to clean out that wing. Even after that, the cons and the hacks were finding dried up bits of flesh and bone for months on end. Well, 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 want to. There's some long-timers here that might talk about it. if you give them something to loosen their lips. Once again, I don't give a fuck. This whole pod had nightmares for a long, long time. I'm probably going to have them till the day I die, and I doubt I'm the only one.

There's 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. Stop talking then, and as the hour was late and we were all pretty fucked 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 vulpine and hungry. I remember that in the dream I was very, 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 richy, 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 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 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 rule breakers. We all trooped off to stand in the chow line, except Richie, who opted to stay behind and undoubtedly indulge in a snort 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 uncaged, 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. The crew unraveled 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 and find Mikey online. Soon enough, I did, through his obituary. He died in the hospital of a short illness not long after I was released. Remy was also deceased, the victim of a shower room rape and stabbing. And Nikki, I discovered that he was in a mental institution. I visited him there once. I'd rather be in jail any day.

Most of the patients I saw there were zombies, chemically bitchy, 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 in 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 the 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 within those prison walls, there is a thing that 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 wouldn't care what you believe either. Thank you for joining us at the No Sleep Podcast. That's a wrap for season four. Please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn more about the show and how you can sign up for season pass five starting January 25th. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep podcast, we thank you for listening and we hope you'll join us on February 8th for the start of season 5.