I am an electrician. I was assigned to go out to a remote prison and fixed some downed lines. When I arrived, I had to go into an empty cell block to shut the breakers down. When exiting, I saw a notebook on the floor that caught my attention. It was beat up, but I decided to toss it into my bag. Maybe it could be interesting, maybe not. I wasn’t expecting this. I’ll be transcribing it as I read through it, and I’ll keep you updated.
My last day alive didn’t start much different from any other day. But that day, the air held a foreboding stillness, a sense of impending doom lurking in the shadows. It began like any other day, a deceptive façade masking the horrors that awaited me. Oversleeping, I rushed to prepare for my night shift as a Correctional Officer. A jail guard. The weight of unease settling upon my shoulders. Little did I know, this day would defy the boundaries of ordinary existence.
As I stumbled through my pre shift routine, a nagging sense of dread gnawed at my consciousness. The world outside seemed tainted, as if the very fabric of reality had frayed at its edges. I ventured out, seeking solace in a remote coffee shop on my way to the prison. The baristas, their eyes hollow and their smiles insincere, served me a cup of coffee brewed from beans claimed to possess mystical qualities. The uneasy ambiance lingered, intensifying my discomfort.
My name is Richard Byrd, a mortal trapped within the confines of a sinister fate. Our small jail, nestled in the heart of Eastern Canada, housed a motley assortment of individuals. From drug dealers to murderers, rapists to drunk drivers. Their crimes carving deep scars into the painted cement the floors as they paced, watching the clock, doing their time.
My role as a Correctional Officer, at times resembling a hapless puppet dancing upon a wicked stage, demanded a delicate balance of diplomacy and vigilance. The good days brought fleeting relief, while the bad days unleashed an avalanche of torment upon us all. Yet, the true test lay within the dark recesses of Maximum Security—MAX, a domain cloaked in malevolence and the whispers of the departed.
And me, I was always assigned to Max, a purgatory of sorts. I found myself ensnared in a treacherous realm. Full-timers shunned it, and new recruits trembled in fear of its haunted reputation. But as a part-time veteran with just enough experience, I could not escape its clutches. It was a desolate existence, like navigating the twilight realm between the living and the dead.
Why shun Max? The answer hung heavy in the air, unspeakable horrors lurking within its shadowy corridors. The bugs, as the seasoned officers called them, were the vilest of inmates—feral creatures driven to assault staff, their screams an unrelenting chorus of madness. The relentless onslaught of their presence eroded our sanity, an unyielding torment that refused to grant respite.
And then there were the stories—the whispers that echoed through the worn brick walls. Tales of phantoms and restless spirits, condemned souls trapped within the confines of Max. Not that I ever believed in that shit. I chalked it up to the ramblings of troubled minds. But on that fateful night, the line between skepticism and belief blurred, the truth veiled behind a macabre veil.
As my last shift began, a chilling wind swept through the prison, carrying with it an otherworldly aura. The familiar halls, once a bastion of routine, morphed into a labyrinth of terror. The dim lights flickered ominously, casting elongated shadows that danced and writhed like specters yearning for release.
Unbeknownst to me, the final chapter of my existence had begun, its pages etched with the blood-curdling whispers of the damned. My last day alive was a mirror reflecting the darkness that had always lurked within the depths of my prison—a darkness that would soon consume me whole.
And it didn’t start much different from any other day.
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The world outside my apartment was cloaked in an eerie silence, a foreboding sign that sent shivers down my spine. It was a summer evening, the air thick with a sense of unease. As I emerged from the confines of my solitary apartment, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something sinister lingered in the shadows.
I embarked on my journey to work, the familiar route weaving through wooded highways. The haunting melodies of Alexisonfire enveloped me, providing a temporary respite from the encroaching dread. But even the music couldn’t drown out the impending horrors that awaited me at the hidden facility nestled deep within the heart of the wilderness. So, this is continuous happiness..
This time of year, the facility suffered from a shortage of staff. Vacations, unexplained illnesses conveniently coinciding with fishing trips, and the phenomenon known as “Sook Leave” plagued us. It seemed like petty disagreements among coworkers unleashed a malevolent force, forcing them to take sick leave for the entire summer. The corridors of the facility were filled with a palpable tension, as the weight of the impending chaos hung heavily in the air.
Arriving at the facility around 6 PM, a sense of foreboding washed over me. The building loomed ominously, casting a sinister shadow over the desolate parking lot. Its brick walls, barred windows, and reinforced chain-link fences, crowned with menacing razor wire, exuded an aura of confinement and despair. Reluctantly, I stepped out of my car, clutching my kit bag, and made my way toward the imposing front entrance.
Navigating the multiple layers of security felt like descending into the bowels of a nightmare. Each sally port, each gate, seemed to trap me further within the labyrinthine corridors of the facility. Finally, I entered the lounge—a place where toxicity and negativity thrived, infecting the very air we breathed.
I began my ritual of cleaning my gear. My stab vest, duty belt, and the boots reserved solely for the confines of the facility required meticulous attention. Amidst the banter and snide remarks, the next shift slowly trickled into the lounge, and the grim reality of the day began to take shape. Through the cacophony of voices, the Captain, a formidable figure named Hart, strode into the room. Her presence commanded respect, yet her expression hinted at the troubles that plagued our institution.
Captain Hart began the pre-shift muster, her words laden with a mix of caution and weariness. Graffiti on the staff washroom walls, medication mix-ups, fights over trivial objects, and contraband discoveries were among the litany of issues she addressed. But it was the news of a drone incident that piqued my attention—the device, carrying a significant amount of cocaine to be dropped off in the recreation yard, had crashed into power lines, causing a small fire and leading to a transfer of inmates from MAX. The power had been cut to MAX. The battery backup leaves emergency lights and security cameras on. Nothing more.
Caught in Captain Hart’s gaze, I received the chilling revelation that I alone would be assigned to fire watch duty in the now-empty MAX block. The prospect of spending the night alone in the deserted block, rife with whispered tales of supernatural occurrences, both thrilled and terrified me. The dread that had plagued me all day morphed into a twisted sense of anticipation.
As the muster concluded, I retreated into my thoughts, imagining the solitary night that lay ahead. The absence of inmates meant a respite from the usual chaos, an opportunity for uninterrupted solitude. Little did I know that my isolation would unveil the true horrors that lurked within the depths of the haunted MAX block, shattering the line between reality and nightmares.
I grabbed an old Stephen King paperback, my battery powered reading lamp, and I made my way down to MAX.
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I took over from the dayshift, relieving a guy named Cookie. He handed me the keys, thick Folger Adam keys, which I quickly washed, and Cookie made his escape into the world. And now there I was, alone in the dark and eerie maximum security block.
The silence weighed heavily on my shoulders as I made my first rounds for fire watch. The facility had been hastily evacuated due to the havoc caused by the drone. With the power out and the inmates gone, the atmosphere in the block was chilling.
As I walked through the deserted Max A, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. The empty cells and scattered debris added to the sense of abandonment and decay. Moving on to Max B, the unease intensified. The darkness seemed to envelop me, amplifying every sound and sending shivers down my spine. I had always felt a negative presence in Max B, but tonight it was stronger than ever. The absence of inmates magnified the ominous atmosphere, leaving me with an overwhelming sense of dread.
Despite my skepticism, I had taken to carrying a piece of obsidian—a supposed absorber of negative energy—to ease my mind during my time at the facility. It provided some comfort, but in this desolate block, its effect felt inadequate. The memories of violence, despair, and death that had stained these walls seemed to seep into my very being. I pushed forward, my heart racing, determined to complete my round.
The dripping water and my echoing footsteps filled the air, punctuating the silence with eerie cadences. As I hurried through Max B, my mind raced with disturbing thoughts. I longed for the safety of the office, away from the oppressive aura that permeated the block. But when I returned to my desk, seeking solace in my book, the unsettling presence refused to dissipate.
Time passed, and the night wore on without incident. I began to relax, believing my fears had been unfounded. Then, just after midnight, a sound pierced the stillness, echoing through the empty block.
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
My blood ran cold as the unmistakable knocking on the dayroom window reached my ears. Panic surged within me as I realized the impossibility of the situation. Lockup had long been completed, and the absence of inmates in MAX made the noise inexplicable. With a mixture of dread and curiosity, I turned my attention to the monitor displaying the camera feed.
To my disbelief, a solid shadow loomed in the Max B dayroom, its presence defying all logic. I left my desk and ran to the dayroom window. A knot tightened in my stomach as I watched the figure—a man with disheveled hair—staring back at me with an unnerving intensity. I couldn’t comprehend how someone could be in that room, locked away from the outside world. But as the moonlight shifted, revealing my own reflection overlaid with the shadow cast by a forgotten bedsheet on the bars, I let out a nervous breath. It was a trick of the light, a mere illusion.
Returning to my desk, I desperately clung to the normalcy of my reading, determined not to let the night’s events get to me. Yet, deep down, I knew that the darkness that had enveloped the block held more secrets than I could fathom.
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I stood at the entrance of the empty cellblock, a dull sense of monotony settling over me. The sterile, concrete walls seemed to absorb any trace of excitement or anticipation, leaving behind only a lingering sense of confinement. Still chilled from the trick of the light, I begrudgingly got up for another round an hour later.
As I patrolled the deserted corridors, the sound of my footsteps echoed in the silence, accompanied only by the distant dripping of that one leaking tap. Each cell door stood locked and seemingly undisturbed, as if holding the secrets of countless stories within their steel frames. But one cell caught my attention—an open door, standing ajar, its darkness beckoning me to. There is no way. This cell was closed all night. It was surely closed when I investigated that knocking.. that shadow.
I cautiously approached the open cell. It was as if the very air held its breath, aware of the unusual anomaly that awaited me inside. My heart quickened its pace, a subtle unease settling in the pit of my stomach. Stepping over the threshold, I surveyed the dimly moon lit room with a flashlight, my eyes gradually adjusting to the lack of light.
Then, my gaze fell upon a trail of wet footprints leading from the cell’s entrance, stretching across the cold, unforgiving floor. They were fresh, the water still glistening on the concrete, and they seemed to vanish into thin air just a few feet away. A shiver crawled up my spine as I realized that no one had entered or exited this block since my shift began. I am alone.
With each step, the mystery deepened. I meticulously followed the trail of footprints, their dampness leaving a cold residue on my fingers as I ran them over the ground. The prints remained consistent—a pair of bare feet, leaving their ethereal mark on the otherwise desolate surroundings.
As I ventured deeper into the cellblock, the atmosphere grew heavier, the air tainted with an unpleasant scent of dampness mixed with a hint of decay. The walls seemed to close in, suffocating me with a weighty presence. Despite my growing trepidation, I pressed on, eager to find the source of the foot prints.
And then, just as quickly as they had appeared, the footprints vanished into thin air, as if the specter that left them had evaporated into the shadows. My heart pounded in my chest, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The silence that enveloped me felt deafening, amplifying the unanswerable questions swirling in my mind.
Something sinister lurked within these prison walls, waiting to be discovered.