Speaker 1: High excursionists. It's way back Wednesday on Into the Night Anthology,
a return to a story that left its mark. And
if you're a library member, don't forget. There's another story
waiting just for you. Be sure to check your email
if you haven't found your way there yet. Listen all
the way to the end to find out how you
can become a story in my library. High listeners. A
quick disclaimer. This week's episodes contain references to rape, torture,
and murder. Listener discretion is advised, especially for listeners under
the age of thirteen. Welcome to Into the Night. I'm
Narri your guide on today's excursion down a twisted path.
Be careful not to get lost. Be it dark or light,
it's easy to lose your way. Are you ready, then
let's begin Sell time. The dripping water from the cracked
ceiling in cell two three four created a rhythmic monotony
that could either lull someone to sleep or cause him
to go insane. Arthur Cranston had too much rage within
him to do either. Ten years into his sentence, Arthur
thought he'd seen a lot. His transfer to the Carmichael
Correctional Center lowered the bar he'd been here three months
and the conditions were worse than anywhere he'd been held
captive before. All inmates tend to complain about bad food
and uncarrying or cruel staff, but there was something more
to this place. I can't put my finger on it,
but there's something unnatural about Carmichael. The physical conditions of
the run down facility were remarkable on their own. Lead
based paint, peeled off walls, and cracks large enough for
rats to crawl through, which they did, were everywhere. The cold, dampness,
an oppressive clammy shadow that permeated the structure, created a
chill that settled into Arthur's soul that was only partially
responsible for his rage. However, never had Arthur encountered a staff,
from entry level corrections officers to warden that seemed to
bask in the inhumanity of his condition, like the ones
at Carmichael. It wasn't just Arthur either. He'd seen glee
in the eyes of staff members who beat inmates mercilessly
or mocked, baited, and framed inmates, only to throw them
into the hole. Back at the Armstrong Correctional Center in
his younger days, Art Cranston spent a few stints in
the hole. It happened, and Art knew he deserved it.
The fights he'd gotten into back then had been worth it.
Though he was young, just fairly twenty at the time,
and fighting was the only way to keep from becoming
someone else's sexual property, going to the hole in Armstrong
had definitely been worth it. Armstrong was bad, but it
wasn't like this place. No, Carmichael was an entirely different beast.
The level of savagery, the unadulterated evil that he witnessed daily,
troubled him. In one week, Art saw more violence towards
inmates than he had seen in years at Armstrong. But
who could he tell. No one cared about inmates, and
the system had done everything it could to break family
ties with anyone on the outside. Art knew that whatever
happened inside Carmichael would not be stopped. That hopelessness fueled
his rage too. However, it was the rape and beating
of poor old man Murphy this morning that accentuated Art's rage. Today,
in front of everyone, almost as sport, three guards and
assaulted a man who was too old to defend himself
against one, let alone three. Art's rage reached a boiling
point today. It had been festering since the first day
he stepped foot in Carmichael. These guards are monsters. Officer
Dick Martin led the brutality Cranston and everyone else in
cell Block Sea witnessed that morning. A stocky man with
black eyes and a blacker heart. Martin always seemed to
be on duty. I haven't met a good one here yet,
but Martin is the ringleader. Whatever he does, the other
guards fall in line with. I even overheard him telling
the warden what to do. Martin rejoiced in making life
hell for those on the other side of the bars.
Society expected a certain level of revenge on those convicted,
but even the most hardened of career employees at Armstrong
would have been shocked by Martin's ruthlessness. He loved inflicting agony,
and then when he'd had his fill of fun with
the man unlucky enough to be his target, he'd laugh
and say, you need some cell time. Cell time meant
a trip to the whole or solitary confinement for those
unfamiliar with prison. Art hadn't been to the hole at
Carmichael himself, yet it was located in the dark basement
area that the other men referred to as the dungeon.
New to the prison camp, Art heard stories from men
who had been there for a while. Mankind has always
tried to make sense of his surroundings. Prison was no exception.
The men at Carmichael grasped for explanations to satisfy a
need to understand. Why was life so hellish here? How
could the staff be so cruel? And what was it
about this dilapidated stone building oozing water from its pores
day and night that brought out the worst in humanity.
One day, not long after Art's arrival at the camp,
Asher Adams glanced over his shoulder and spoke in a whisper, man,
I've heard it's haunted down there where down in the dungeon?
Art chuckled, I don't believe in ghosts. Asher, Try that
story on some young kid. I'm not buying it. It
ain't a joke. I hope neither of us finds out
for sure. Those ghosts torment the men down there. You
just watch, no one comes out of the hole the scene.
Look at Proctor's eyes. Man, the dude's not right, and
that asshole Martin just laughs when he sends people to
the dungeon. He loves telling the guys they need some
sell time. Martin loved using his favorite catchphrase every chance
he got. He became antsy if he couldn't send a
man to the dungeon. His eyes snapped with anticipation as
he narrowed in on his next victim. Men avoided him
as much as possible, but it was impossible once he
set his sights on someone. What kind of sick man
is he? Ty Williams, a man Art worked with at
the chow Hall, independently warned him of the same fears.
Asher Adam shared. If you listen at night, you can
hear things moving in the walls. Those are rats, Tie,
You've seen them, and I've seen them. No, not rats.
Whatever it is scares the hell out of the rats.
They quit their squeaking and scurrying when those other noises start.
Art paused. There was a ferociousness of sincerity in Ty's
face that couldn't be denied. You just listen some night art,
late at night, when nothing should be stirring, you'll hear
what I'm talking about. Tie was a formidable man. He
stood a foot taller than Art and weighed no less
than two hundred and eighty pounds. Whatever he heard it had,
this mountain of a man spooped. Art did listen, and
he did hear. At first it sounded like the soft
rustling of papers in a breeze, then an almost imperceptible
sound of a voice of sorts. It could be heard
humming through the walls and floors. The more he listened,
it became a mournful, whistling howl that caused even a
hardened man like himself to shiver. Goosebumps covered his arms,
and he pulled his blanket up under his chin, tightly
closing his eyes to try to block out the sound
and the sensation. The ghosts were filling the midnight air.
That was a month ago. Since then, Art meticulously observed
every move made by every one, staff and innate alike.
Ash Er Adams was correct. Men who returned from the
hole were changed, their eyes were vacant, and even in
the few weeks Art had taken notice those wasted away,
he barely recognized some who were strapping young men when
he'd arrived at Carmichael. The stress of this prison took
a toll on Art Cranston to Day's rage was a
conflagration of disgust over the inhumanity of his captors and
the growing fear welling up inside him. I don't believe
in ghosts, but what the hell is going on here?
I'm about to blow and I know that won't help me.
I need to keep my head together, but my nerves
are shot. I can't take one more episode like what
happened to Murphy. No man should go through what those
bastards did to him. In the middle of the bay,
Art's blood boiled and the sounds of Murphy's screams pierced
his mind. He held his head in his hands, rocking
himself on his bunk, begging for the visions to go away.
Then he heard it, not the rustling of papers in
the wind, nor the dripping of water from a clammy ceiling.
He heard Martin's laugh, Adams, you and me are gonna
have a little discussion. Art stepped out of his cell
to watch Asher Adams nervously step to the door of
his cell. Martin motioned for him to come closer. Art
knew the fear on Asher's face wasn't simply because of Martin. No,
Asher was compulsively afraid of heights, and Martin stood near
the railing. Why would they force a man so deathly
afraid of heights to live on the top walk? Why
he hugs the wall every time he comes up here?
Art had wondered that a thousand times now. His heart
rate quickened as he watched Asher slowly emerge on to
the walk and edge toward the railing. Martin smiled so
sweetly that a casual observer might think that Martin was
offering Asher a cigarette or a piece of chocolate. Art
Cranston knew better. He wanted to scream no before the
word could escape him. However, it was done in a
viciously smooth movement. Martin threw Asher atoms over the railing.
The sickening sound of his skull cracking on the cement
floor below brought the entire housing unit to a standstill.
The rage could be contained no more. Art rushed toward Martin,
screaming in fury. Just as he reached for Martin's throat,
four guards appeared out of nowhere and took him to
the ground, beating him with their blackjacks and billy cloves.
Get him to his feet, Martin ordered a bleeding and battered.
Art was lifted to his feet, but the blood letting
hadn't eased his rage. You son of a bitch, you
killed that man, You killed him for no reason. You're
going to rotten hell. Martin flashed his standard grin and said,
looks like you need some cell time. I'll take you
down myself. The other guards chuckled and tightly shackled Art Cranston.
His arms were handcuffed behind him back, and his feet
could only inch along in a shuffle. Martin grasped his
left arm as two guards grabbed him at the handcuffs.
I don't care what they'd do to me down there.
They won't break me. The progress was slow. The dungeon
was far below the regular prison complex, and it lived
up to its name. Water trickled down the walls of
stone as Art clumsily took the endless rock stairs, leading
forever downward. The light was poor and the guards turned
on headlamps much like those used by underground miners. Art
blinked to see while blood from a gash on his
scalp trickled down into his eyes. As the light hit
the darkness below, Art realized the dungeon was a part
of a cave. As a boy, he'd splunked with his
uncle in the caves of Kentucky, so he knew what
he was looking at. A small stream trickled down the
man made hallway, leading to what looked like catacomb lining
its sides. The smell was dank and moisture clouded the air.
This must be what death smells like. Art's shoes and
socks were drenched as he sloshed through the water. A
pair of rats chattered, almost mocking him, as his slow
march to the dark cell continued. Finally he reached his destination.
I'll take it from here, boys, Martin barked. The two
guards dropped their hold on Art and quietly retreated down
the darkened corridor. Martin shoved a door open with his foot,
unlocked the handcuffs and shackles, and tossed Art through the doorway.
In the dark, he stumbled on something in the cell
that clanged. It was a metal bucket that served as
a toilet. How can you get away with treating people
this way? You know why? You've been down long enough
to figure out no one cares. The truth in Martin's
statement couldn't be argued. Art stood silently in the darkarkness.
Martin pushed him toward one side of the cell. Have
a seat on your bunk. I'd like to have a
little talk with you, like the one you just had
with Adams. Art braced for the blows he expected to follow. Instead,
Martin sat next to him on the bunk. Doesn't he
know I'd like to kill him with my bare hands.
Why is he sitting next to me? I'm thinking you
are smart enough to figure out a lot of things, Cranston,
so I want to have a little talk to fill
in some of the blanks for you. I've seen you watching.
I'm gonna tell you a few secrets. Art sat silently.
Tell me what stories you've been told about the dungeon.
Some of the guys say it's haunted. Martin let out
a low chuckle. No, it's not haunted, at least not
in the way you people think it is. It's more
more complicated than that, yet oh so simple. Really, I
don't follow you. If you're done, just leave me here.
You've had your fun for the day. Yes, today has
been quite eventful. It's almost night time, you know what
that means. A slight breeze blew into the cell, and
Art heard the rustling of papers. Subconsciously, goosebumps rose on
his forearm. He could swear he heard a low whistling
sound leave Martin's lips. Cranston pressed himself against the wall
to put distance between himself and Martin. We've lived here
for centuries, you know. At first my people were angry
that your kind built this prison on top of our lair.
Then we saw great benefits. Martin uttered a low whistling howl,
which was answered by excited howls outside of the cell.
And if you're trying to screw with my head, it's
not going to work. You've had your fun, now go.
Martin leaned into him. Oh, this part of the plan
has nothing to do with fun, eating a serious business.
A chill ran down Cranston's spine. You see, my people
are an ancient society. Few of you know about us,
but we've been called shapeshifters and other names throughout the years.
We've lived here longer than you have. For a moment,
it seemed that Martin's body wavered. It was more than
the trickery of darkness. Something had changed about Martin and
arc Cranston pushed himself further against the damp wall. Fear
replaced rage. I do love a good turn of phrase,
don't you, Cranston. When you heard the words sell, you
think of your cage. When we think of a cell,
we think of nourishment, cold dread consumed Art Cranston, My
people need you and your ilk. You're an intelligent, observant man.
I've watched you. You've seen the demise of men who
return from the dungeon. How they wither before your eyes.
Cranston nodded. He could think of nothing else to do.
There was nowhere to run as the howls increased outside
the door. My people are hungry. We feed on your cells.
They give us the energy we crave. You've noticed we
staff work as a team. We masquerade as humans, but
our job is to provide the meals our people need.
Your justice system provides us a steady supply. Unlike you humans,
we value our people. No one goes uncared for in
our society. Leaping to his feet, Art tried to flee.
In a split second, Martin had him pinned against the wall.
His feet dangled in the air. A low hum reverberated
from Martin's beating. It will be uncomfortable for you at first,
My loved one will enter your body and begin to feed.
We prefer the brain first. All the electrical synapses are
like carbohydrates to you. We leave it operational for basic functions,
but your ability to be cognizant will fade rapidly. A
wind gushed into the door. Martin forced Art Cranston's mouth open.
A moan escaped Art, and he fought a valiant fight
to no avail. It was cell time. Thank you for
joining me for this episode of the Into the Night
Anthology podcast. Written by Caroline Giamanco, narrated by Nari, Theme
music by Nico Rodriguez, all other original music, sound design
and editing by Ohmenhawk Studios. You can find our links
in the show notes. Into the Night is on your
favorite podcatcher, so make sure to like, subscribe and leave
a five star review to help other excursionists to join us.
I'll see you next time, and remember, whether in the
shadows or in the daylight, all twisted paths lead you
into the night. Into the Night Anthology is a creative
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