Why do certain cell blocks remain permanently understaffed, and what happened during the riot that official records won't discuss? Which inmates serve sentences longer than their documented crimes warrant, and why does the warden burn incident reports before filing them? What's behind those basement doors marked 'Authorized Personnel Only'?
Follow Cthulhu Architect on BlueSky!
The world is a prison in which solitary confinement is preferable.
― Karl Kraus
Dr. Elena Vasquez had always believed in redemption, even for the worst of humanity. That conviction brought her to the Massachusetts Correctional Institution as head psychiatrist, determined to revolutionize their mental health program. The facility’s austere brick facade and razor-wire crown seemed less like barriers and more like a fortress protecting society from what festered within.
Her first week passed unremarkably---routine sessions with inmates, reviewing files, establishing protocols. But by the second week, she began noticing peculiarities. Certain prisoners would suddenly stop speaking mid-sentence, their eyes glazing over as if listening to something she couldn’t hear. The guards, typically chatty and crude, grew silent whenever she approached specific cell blocks.
The real unease began when Elena discovered gaps in the prisoner records. Not simple omissions, but systematic erasures. Entire sections of the east wing showed no current occupants, yet she could hear movement---shuffling footsteps, muffled conversations---whenever she passed those supposedly empty corridors.
Warden DeMarco’s explanations grew increasingly evasive. “Administrative reorganization,” he’d mutter, avoiding her gaze. “Some things are better left undisturbed, Doc.” His hands trembled when he spoke, and Elena noticed he never ventured beyond the main administrative building after sunset.
The breakthrough came during a session with Marcus Chen, a lifer serving for armed robbery. Mid-conversation, his demeanor shifted completely. His voice dropped to a whisper, and he began describing things no prisoner should know---details about her childhood home, her sister’s death three years prior, private thoughts she’d never shared with anyone.
“They’re not gone,” Marcus said, his pupils dilated despite the bright fluorescent lighting. “The ones who disappeared. They’re still here, in the spaces between. And they’re so very hungry for company.”
That night, Elena stayed late, determined to investigate the east wing. The key card DeMarco claimed was deactivated worked perfectly. Beyond the heavy steel door lay a corridor identical to the others, but the air felt different---thicker, charged with an oppressive presence that made her skin crawl.
The cells weren’t empty. In each one sat a figure, perfectly still, facing the wall. Prison uniforms hung loose on their motionless forms. Elena called out, but none responded. As she approached the nearest cell, she realized with mounting horror that the figure showed no signs of breathing.
She fumbled for her phone’s flashlight, and the beam revealed the truth. The bodies were desiccated, mummified by some process that left them sitting upright, their mouths hanging open in silent screams. But their eyes---their eyes tracked her movement with terrible awareness.
Elena ran, but the corridor stretched impossibly long. Behind her, she heard the scraping of dead flesh against concrete, the whisper of dried vocal cords attempting speech. The exit door remained always just beyond reach, and she understood with crystalline clarity that she was no longer a doctor studying the imprisoned.
In the administrative building the next morning, Warden DeMarco updated his files. Dr. Elena Vasquez had submitted her resignation effective immediately, citing personal reasons. The east wing remained sealed, and the count of its occupants quietly increased by one.
