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he six-by-nine cell was a far cry from the luxuries he grew up with, but that was another world ago. He had more-or-less been on his own since sixteen, though his mother’s protective wing had always hovered nearby—at least her money. He never had much use for anything else and she had nothing else to give. Motherly love couldn’t be doled out the same way as a hundred.
She wasn’t around anymore and neither was her third husband. The sudden disappearance of his parents left John Shayman’s fortunes locked up in probate. If he had the ability to tap into some of those funds, he could have hired a better lawyer. Then he’d be sitting in the lap of luxury, on probation, rather than doing four to seven in a medium-security cellblock.
It wasn’t that life was horribly bad in prison; in fact he had it pretty good. He was making connections that would serve him well. John always had good looks and charm, the ability to draw people to him. The lost and the hopeless flocked to him as a shepherd and he played the role. Prison contained a similar flock, only with more muscle.
The problem with being locked up, though, was obvious: too restricting. Before he was put away, things on the outside were starting to come together. He had acquired the one thing his mother had spent her whole life searching for, only to have it stripped from his hands as fast as he had stripped it from hers. It was something so powerful it terrified him as much as it excited him.
Thinking of that precious book, John picked up a dog-eared paperback from his bunk. He flipped through its pages, “The Dunwich Horror” by H.P. Lovecraft.
He had read all of Lovecraft’s tales again and again, trying to piece it together. It wasn’t hard to draw comparisons between his book and the Necronomicon Lovecraft described. They both called upon otherworldly forces; still, he doubted that what he had seen represented any kind of elder god. His book also didn’t require any interpreting since it was written in English. Many of the pages were even written by him in his own blood.
Now he just needed to get it back. With all this time on his hands he had come up with a way. As if on cue, he heard the whistle which was the signal to put his plan in motion.
The doors to his cell block were left open, his door leading onto a fourth-story catwalk which ran the length of the fourth tier. There were six tiers with fifty cells in each. Across the catwalk was an identical layout. At max capacity the cell block could hold six hundred inmates, twelve hundred if they doubled up the cells. Things had been running at double capacity until the recent addition of another wing.
John now had the cell to himself which was in the middle of the tier. His old cellmate Gordon had been moved to the front of the tier. Gordon was a walking mountain, taking up the entire width of the catwalk as he went. He was the one that whistled, the one slowly strolling behind the wafer-thin guard as John stepped out of his cell. There were only about fifteen other prisoners hanging out on the catwalks. Many remained in their cells or buddied-up in other cells to play chess or cards.
The guard walked past the convicts without making eye contact. His blonde hair was darker than John’s which was verging on white. The guard didn’t walk with the typical stride of most prison guards. His shoulders were slumped forward slightly and it looked as if he was on tiptoes.
As the guard approached, John stepped in his way. “Officer Stillwell. How are you doing? It’s nice to see you on the wing again. I hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble with the boss.”
Officer Stillwell stopped his forward motion in front of John, but refused to look above John’s nose. “Oh—uh . . . oh, it wasn’t—not your fault, John. You—you didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to accept gifts from inmates.”
“Well Curtis—I mean Officer Stillwell, I’m sorry just the same. I really wanted you to have it. It wasn’t doing me much good in here. You didn’t get in too much trouble, did you?” John asked.
“Uh, y-you know how the warden is.”
“Yes I do. He’s an asshole; pardon my French.”
Curtis began to stutter out another response when John’s ex-cellmate closed in behind him. At the same time, a greasy-haired convict in the cell next to John’s charged out at the officer. That’s when Gordon the Goliath pushed Curtis into John’s awaiting arms. The force knocked both of them to the ground, but the commotion didn’t end there. Gordon grabbed the charging inmate by the back of the hair and, using the man’s own momentum, hurled him over the railing.
Upon impact the convict’s head burst open like an egg instantly scrambled.
The sound of violence brought everyone onto the catwalks. Guards made their way onto the tier as hoots and hollers echoed through the block. John helped Officer Stillwell up to his feet.
“Are you OK?” John asked.
Curtis was breathing heavily and staring wide-eyed all around. John knew it was going to be a long time before the man would be able to utter a response. The guard’s stutter wasn’t too bad when he was calm, but with all the excitement, the words were imprisoned like John was.
“Well you look alright. It’s a good thing I was here. That could have ended very badly for you.” As if to emphasize his point, John looked over the railing. Curtis followed the gaze and saw all the King’s men converging on Humpty.
By this time, guards in riot gear had breached the fourth tier. The behemoth was holding them back, taking clubs to the body like it was a new form of oriental massage.
“I guess it’s time for me to get back to my cell. This has got me thinking, though. Maybe some time you could repay the favor. Nothing big. Nothing that should get you in trouble.”
John didn’t see the guard behind him and he barely felt the blow to the head that knocked him unconscious.
An hour later, Officer Curtis Stillwell was standing at attention in the warden’s office.
“What the hell were you thinking! How many times do I have to put my men in jeopardy just to save your scrawny ass! I’m talking to you, boy! Answer me!” The tall, lean, gray-haired warden walked in circles around the erect guard.
“Uhh, I, I, I, I.” Beads of sweat formed on Curtis’s upper lip.
“I! I! I! God damn, son, what is the matter with you? I swear to god, if it wasn’t for your mother I would take your puny ass and throw you out the window myself. If your mother wasn’t such a saint I would really wonder whose son you were because you sure as hell don’t act like a son of mine!”
He leaned in closer. “I mean, look at you slouching there!”
Curtis tried to stand up straighter and the warden flipped Curtis’s tie into the air. “Shirt all un-tucked, gig line all off, hair a mess! By god! Son you are not only here to represent our fine state. With that last name, you represent me! You are a disgrace! A filthy disgrace! You belong with those damn convicts you always want to talk to. Little bitty Curtis, always in search of a playmate.”
The warden paused, his voice growing hoarse. A little above a whisper he spoke, “I can’t bear to see your face any longer. Get out of my office. Better yet, get out of my prison. You’re on suspension until further notice.”
Curtis didn’t try to speak; he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Nothing would come out anyway. Instead, he did an about-face and marched out of the office. He was fuming, but the only thing to show for it was a blue vein risen behind the pale skin of his temple.
On the way through the maze of the prison he passed the infirmary. A chance look and he saw John Shayman lying in bed. The man had saved Curtis’s life and all he got for thanks was a baton to the head. Curtis unlocked the door to the ward.
John was lying in bed next to Gordon who saw the guard approaching.
“John, here comes Officer Stillwell. We did good, huh? How did you know Darren was going to try to attack him?”
John just looked at the huge man and tapped his forehead.
“Ahhh, but I thought Darren was your friend. Why would he do that?”
Somewhat under his breath John replied, “He was expendable.”
Gordon turned and looked closer at John. “He was what?”
“It was inexcusable what Darren tried to do. Officer Stillwell has always been good to us,” John said as Curtis drew near. “Ah, Officer Stillwell. I hope everything is still well.”
Curtis closed his eyes and concentrated, he willed his tongue to work, but it still came out a stuttering mess. John cut him off once he got the gist.
“Suspended, huh? I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Y-yo, y-yo-you as-as, asked for a favor?” Curtis said.
John looked Curtis in the eyes. Curtis tried to turn away from the look, but was caught in the crystal blue gaze. “Yes. When you retrieved the watch that I gave you from my property, did you happen to see a large brown leather book?”
Curtis didn’t speak, he just nodded his head yes.
“For some reason, the powers that be deemed that book inappropriate to read. If you could somehow bring it to me, though, I would greatly appreciate it.”
They both heard a rattling of keys as someone started to unlock the door. Curtis turned and saw a nurse and another guard entering the infirmary. Before leaving Curtis turned, looked John in the eyes one more time and nodded yes vigorously.
Gordon asked John, “Do you think they will reduce our sentence for saving his life?”
“If he does what I’ve asked, then I’m sure They will lessen our sentence.”
Minutes later, Curtis was helped himself into the property room. Being the son of the warden, no one questioned him much, but his father’s “eyes and ears” would report back. In no time he was in and out with the brown leather book in hand. He was headed back to the infirmary when he saw one of his dad’s goons. He would have to get it to John after suspension.
With his belongings gathered from his locker, he crossed the parking lot and climbed into his blue Travelall with brown wood paneling. He would be home early, and wondered what his wife would have to say.
Curtis didn’t have to wait long once he got home. Her voice bellowed from the kitchen as he opened the front door. He was tempted to turn right back around and drive off to a nicer climate. Instead he closed the door behind him and waited for the barrage.
“Curtis you good for nothing louse! What business do you have coming home early? Oh you don’t have to tell me, your father was already nice enough to tell me about your suspension. Suspension, with no pay! What good are you? You barely make enough to keep this shabby roof over our head as it is. Just think if we had kids! How would you support us then? I guess it’s a blessing in some way that you are not man enough to produce strong swimmers. I knew I should have married Walter when I had the chance. Have you seen the car Margie drives around in?”
Again Curtis took the battering, and slowly festered inside. A couple of times his wife asked if he was listening. He thought he nodded yes, but didn’t. He was listening to something else that had begun to speak.
As her rant continued, Curtis heeded the other call. He walked out and went back to his car, ignoring his wife’s feverish protests. He didn’t know where he was going, but it didn’t take very long to get there. Several blocks from his picturesque neighborhood he found himself amid boarded-up houses and broken-down cars.
Seemingly at random, he pulled into the driveway of one deserted house. He grabbed the book from the passenger seat and it seemed to crawl in his grasp. Curtis felt his pulse thrumming in the hand that held the book.
He walked to the front door and wasn’t surprised to find that someone else had already removed the board that had once barred access. He entered the gloomy house and found an odor that reminded him of parts of the prison. Amazingly, he was used to the smell of feces, vomit and stale urine.
He walked through, as if he had been there a million times, to a back bedroom where there was a stained mattress. Thick shag carpeting covered the floor in unnatural green, also stained in many spots. It was getting dark outside; very little light came in between the boards on the window.
Curtis pulled a pen-light from his breast pocket and squatted onto the mattress. When he placed his hand on the mattress, something sharp poked up from under the fabric and jabbed his left index finger. He instantly drew the finger to his mouth and began sucking on it.
With his right hand he placed the book on his lap and opened it up. He took his bleeding finger out of his mouth and placed the small light between his lips so he could use both hands. A steely taste mixed with tinge of blood already in his mouth. He flipped through the pages and the thought came that he was not here to read. He proceeded toward the end until he found a blank page. Then his finger went to work.
By the time he had finished it was almost dawn, but Curtis felt alive with energy. Blood had flowed readily from his finger until it was time to stop.
Warden Hershel Stillwell was halfway through his second cup of coffee. He had already completed his morning calisthenics and was eating a piece of toast while reading the morning paper. His wife walked into the room and set a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table.
“Mommy, have we heard anything from Carin?” Hershel asked her.
“Not since last night,” she said. She was in her sixties and wore a pink bathrobe, her gray hair in curlers.
Hershel’s face turned red. “What the hell is wrong with that boy? I taught that good-for-nothing son of mine better than that! What right does he have to go running off on his wife like that? I swear that boy doesn’t have a lick of sense. He’s just like that worthless brother of yours.” His wife sat down next to him with her own plate.
“Maybe you were too hard on him yesterday, dear,” the woman spoke, regretting it immediately.
“Too hard? Too hard? God damn it!” Hershel began to yell.
The woman flinched and began to cross herself.
“If it wasn’t for your constant coddling of him as a child, maybe by now he’d actually have the mettle to make a man.”
A tear began to trickle down the woman’s face. “Y-you, you promised . . .”
Hershel looked at his wife and instantly felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, mommy. I know. I promised I wouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, but darn it woman, that boy makes me so mad.”
“And what did your father say about you?” his wife asked as her tears dissolved.
The redness returned to Hershel’s face. “Woman, don’t you dare mention that man to me. I’ll do more than take the Lord’s name.”
The small woman winced again and shrank within herself. She looked at her husband, fearful of his wrath. It didn’t come.
Hershel took in a deep breath and stood up. “I’d better get going. Maybe I’ll swing by and check on Carin on my way. I might be able to get an idea of where your poor little boy ran off to.” He grabbed his keys from the mantel. His wife followed close behind. He turned, gave the fragile woman a small kiss on the cheek and went out the door.
The driveway of the single-story house was vacant. The poorly watered lawn stood out like a guard wearing the wrong uniform during formation. Hershel was going to have to show his lousy son a thing or three about maintaining a house, among other things. Maybe he’d start the sprinkler himself and have Carin turn it off later.
He parked, got out and crunched through the lawn. The front door hung open like the mouth of a hungry dog. Ten steps from the door and he could smell something foul, much worse than the breath of any canine.
A twinge of fear shot through him like a firing squad. Hershel didn’t know where the nerves were coming from, but he hadn’t felt this frightened since Korea. Even being surrounded by convicts didn’t raise his hackles like this. He couldn’t quite place the smell. It was mixture of the cesspool behind the prison on a hot summer day and the slaughterhouse he worked in as a teenager.
“Carin? Carin, it’s Hershel. Are you OK?” He looked around as he slowly walked into the living room. He heard the front door swing shut behind him. Before he could turn around, something stung him on the back, dropping him onto the ground.
Whatever it was had paralyzed him. With his last bit of strength he flipped onto his back to face his assailant, and then he could only scream.
He awoke on a bed, unable to move. He tried to focus his eyes but the ceiling remained a blur. His mouth tasted like burnt roast, his lower jaw throbbed, and his head felt light.
Someone was next to him. He tried to turn his head but had to settle for peripheral vision. It was Carin. She was wiggling slightly and blood ran down her mouth and neck. Hershel opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t.
Then he heard a crack and his body became alive with pain. He jolted and shook as something slimy wiped across his body.
When his convulsions finally subsided he heard another crack. He tensed for the pain, but this time it wasn’t his. Carin’s body thrashed at his side.
Hershel’s body tingled and he found he could move his head slightly. He turned in time to see something lashing toward him, pinkish purple with tiny bumps all over it, glistening through the air. Wet and slimy, the whip hit him again. The pain was so excruciating he almost couldn’t feel it.
He involuntarily lurched forward and for a moment was face to face with his tormentor. The whip was its tongue, or at least it extended from a mouth-like orifice. Or it might have been a dozen tongues all stitched—cauterized together—and he suddenly understood the strange taste and vacancy in his own mouth. It was only a moment of clarity before he was lashed again. |
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