Nicholas Street Jail
The structure is imposing, massive and fearful. Built in 1862 as a jail and
gallows for the worst of humanity. "Living" conditions were sickening and
appalling. The top floor was reserved for death-row -- end-of-the-line. The
prison was closed in 1972 and was deemed to be heritage -- yet, no
modernizations could mask its eerie cold-spots and consistent presence of
dread.
One-hundred-fifty unmarked graves were found there. Disturbing noises,
putrid, gaseous odors, and ghostly sightings of hanged inmates and crazed
staff were common claims. Today, the renovated death-row cells can be
booked and rented. I made a bet (a sure thing, I thought) with my hubby
that I could spend twenty-four hours locked in one of those horrid cages.
After all, a two-carat diamond is worth a little scare, don't you agree?
Modern conveniences (TV, phone, tablets, etc.) were forbidden in the
"rooms." My white bread and American cheese sandwich tasted quite good
with an ice-cold glass of water. I was actually feeling giddy. I could picture
that sparkling diamond on my finger. Thankfully, books and magazines were
allowed. I sat upright on the single, thin mattress and began to read until
the lights-out announcement echoed throughout the dark.
Immediately I felt a pressing, claustrophobic panic. The cells were small;
but, the blackness seemed to be immense and spreading. A single window in
the narrow corridor that separated the cells let in a tiny sliver of moonlight.
The silence grew maddening. Could I be the only guest? I didn't want to
think about that. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. It was early morning
when I was awakened by faint, distant voices. I felt hot and sweaty. I
pulled the sheet back. I was in bra and panties -- shockingly, I couldn't
recall ever having removed my clothes . . . .
I got up and grabbed hold of the bars. Save for a crack of bluish moon. I
could see nothing beyond my cell. What I subsequently experienced
paralyzed me to that spot in a pool of drenching terror. Snickering. Maniacal
laughter. Wolf-whistles. The animal grunts of men who've not been with
women for a very long time. Multiple, invisible hands began feeling my
body and stroking my legs. I felt unmentionable things poking and
prodding me -- everywhere.
In the midst of this unspeakable assault, I heard the creaking of cell doors;
plodding footsteps; wailing, weeping, praying; and the most horrifying
gurgling and choking sounds coming from the direction of the old hangman's
gallows. I could see and smell these apparitions -- pitiful, unclean and
diseased souls with broken necks and severed eyeballs. I must have
collapsed at that point. The next morning, I was discovered unconscious on
the hard cell floor.
I was rushed to the nearest emergency room. There were cuts and bruises all
over my body. While there were numerous indicators pointing to a mass
sexual attack, no traces of semen or any physical evidence could be found.
The police were investigating. I woke up groggy, to see the face of my sweet
hubby staring down at me so worried and concerned.
"I guess I lost the bet," I said.
He leaned over, kissed me, and placed a brilliant, two-carat diamond ring in
my bandaged hand. "You deserve more than jewelry for consenting to stay
in that monstrous place. You get some rest. We'll have plenty of time to talk
later."
I closed my eyes and began to drift and . . . slowly, softly the moans and
fondling commenced . . .
_____________________________
September 21, 2016
Poetry/Narrative/Nicholas Street Jail
Copyright Protected, ID 16-831-620-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudony.
Submitted to the contest,
Scare Me Good Contest
Honorable Mention
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2016
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