The Prisoner

Dear Reader,

Consider for a moment the exquisite nature of terror. No other emotion can so fully infest the soul of a human being at any one moment in time. Surely some would argue love’s merit in regard to this contention, but I beg to disagree. Even in the moment of truest passion there is often caution, apprehension, and in some cases even regret. Now imagine a person thrust into a situation of absolute horror. There is nothing else. Their entire being is drenched in it; an absolute deluge of fear has taken possession of that person’s life, if not their very essence. Terror is not however, only fostered from situations outside oneself. Many times, the purest forms of fright spring to life from inside the very mind of the victim. An overripe imagination is all the ingredients one would need to inspire, distill, and purify the sweet nectar of dread.

Submitted for your perusal is the unhappy tale of prisoner 6892, native of the Bastille and the newest transfer to the sublevels of Namur Prison. Rumor has it that he had written inflammatory literature against the monarchy on behalf of the starving peasantry. As punishment, Louis XIV had him placed in a windowless cell, never to see the light of day. No light of any kind was allowed. Even during the transfer of 6892 to Namur, it was decreed that he would wear a dark velvet hood so that his dark exile would go uninterrupted. He had been imprisoned so long ago in fact that his name had passed out of all memory and the only way he could be identified was by the prison number that was branded into his right forearm.

Time had no meaning for the prisoner, as it seemed his meals were brought at irregular intervals. In spite of his best effort to find some way to keep track of time in the end this too, much like his need for light, fell into irrelevancy. He had often wondered what the world outside was doing. At times like this his mind would go on journeys, wandering through the streets of Paris, sharing wine with his friends at his favorite watering hole, the soft smell of the waitress’ perfume, anything that would spark his imagination. He knew it was futile to dwell on things he missed, but to him it was a fine way to stave off madness. And while it was not long before he was brought back to his grim, dark reality, any respite from the oppressive blackness of the cell was a welcome one. Many times in the beginning of his imprisonment, the captive would talk to himself to break the leaden silence of his solitude. As time went on however even his own voice grew to sound disconcerting. Eventually the only sound that resonated in the cell was the soft pitter-patter and occasional squeak of the rats that were periodic visitors to his tiny domicile. He didn’t mind the rats. Aside from their annoying habit of relieving themselves wherever they pleased, they basically kept to themselves and in exchange for a small share of his dinner, were not apt to make a meal of the prisoner.

He often wondered how long it had taken him to actually go blind in the total darkness, but as always since he knew he would be in this cell entombed for the rest of his days his mind rested. It simply did not matter. What good were eyes where there was no light to see? In his life, there was literally nothing to look at. He had no idea whether he slept during the day or at night, because like his victuals sleep came to him with no discernable pattern. His back periodically ached due to his having nothing to rest on aside from the hard stone floor. He tried to tell himself that it could be worse, but he failed to see how. Thankfully his sense of smell had so badly degraded from the constant barrage of his own stench, that the aroma of his cell no longer bothered him. He figured that if the rats found it appealing most of his fellow men would be instantly repelled. When he first arrived, he quickly nosed the small hole carved into the floor. It measured about half a foot across and judging from the smell was meant for waste disposal. No doubt his hole led directly to the sewers and could certainly account for the ingress and egress of his little furry companions. The only thing that eluded him was how air was brought into the cell. It was true that some air came in when the small hatch opened in the bottom of the door at meal times, but it was not open nearly long enough to account for his being able to breathe. He could only conclude that there had to be some holes in the ceiling up in the darkness beyond his reach. No sound ever emanated from up there, so the mechanism was a complete mystery to him. In spite of this however the captive had settled into more or less a quiet routine of simple existence.

One evening, (or morning, it was all the same to him) the prisoner was awoken. There was a sound. It took his mind a moment or two to focus, but then he heard it again. It was a dull, soft sound like a leather cape being dragged across a roughly hewn floor. It was definitely a sound he had not heard before. It was a strange, alien sound that was emanating from inside the cell. And what was stranger still, the sound seemed to be moving. Immediately the prisoner attempted to calm his nerves. He chided himself for almost letting his imagination run away with him. Ever vigilant against any possible signs of madness, 6892 slowed his breathing and softly whistled a Mozart sonata. He looked around in vain. As if he would actually be able to visually detect anything out of the ordinary. A moment more and he realized there was nothing to be seen but old habits die hard. Now all had gone silent as before. The prisoner strained to hear even the minutest intonation of sound, but was only greeted by the constant, rapid thundering of his own heart. Eventually this too is slowed to its normal state of being. The cell was as silent as the grave. The frightened man curled up on the floor and tried to go back to sleep, but he soon found this to be a futile endeavor. His mind refused to rest as his thoughts continuously returned to the bizarre sound that he heard. What could it have been? Finally after what he knew must have been hours his mind surrendered to his need for repose.

When 6892 had awoken from his very fitful slumber he was determined to make a thorough search of his cell. He knew that it was 25 ft. by 25 ft. and that the only distinctive surface features he could discern were the heavy iron door, and the small hole that constituted his latrine. He paced throughout his cell, end-to-end and corner-to-corner. In the end he came to the conclusion that aside from the occasional visiting rat he was completely alone. Now if that was the case, what made the rough scraping sound? Somehow it must have been the rats, but that noise sounded as if it had been made by something larger than the average rat. Over and over his mind tried to wrap itself around the question. How could a noise come from nowhere? He would have given anything for just a few seconds of sight to catch a glimpse of the upper part of the cell, just to see if anything up there could have made the sound. He knew the ceiling of his cell was relatively high as his voice echoed if he spoke with any fervor. Upon further reflection though he realized that even this was a futile train of thought as the alien sound he heard was definitely emanating from along the ground…and it moved. As time crept by, the captive’s mind began to quiet itself. The tension slowly drained out of his muscles. His body lost its rigidity and he returned (as much as was possible) to a feeling of normalcy. Only now a palpable sense of disquiet lurked in the corner of his mind. Something had intruded on his quiet existence. Something malevolent, of that he had no doubt.

A few days later, not long after 6892 had doled out the rats’ portion of his evening meal, his ears bristled when he once again heard the subtle sound of leather scraping on the floor. His eyes darted back and forth in the darkness. Steeling up his courage, the captive moved closer to the sound. It was definitely along the floor and seemed to originate from near the waste receptacle. What could have been coming out of that hole? The prisoner was being as quiet as possible. He was desperately trying not to draw any attention to himself as he crept closer and closer to the opening. Without warning the cell was filled with the sound of a deep exhalation. It echoed all around the frightened prisoner. It was a sickly, raspy sound like a consumptive struggling for breath.

“Oh my god.” He thought to himself. 6892’s breath was coming in short strained portions as his mind began racing. What sort of horrific thing was he sharing his cell with? With the arrival of this new presence his world seemed to be shrinking by the second. The world that he had become accustomed to had now grown cramped and increasingly claustrophobic. He knew that it was physically impossible for the walls to be closing in on him, but all the same he could not ignore the rising terror that was enveloping him. Once more his ears were assaulted by the frightful breathing that now seemed to be moving with greater urgency toward the far corner of the cell. A small glimmer of relief began to shine its way through the prisoner’s ever increasing horror. He noted that the sound was definitely not moving towards him. Did it know he was there? Could he avoid it? And then all went silent. The prisoner’s heart, which only seconds ago threatened to explode from his chest, now almost seemed to stop in dreadful anticipation. Cold sweat flooded from every pore of his trembling skin. He prayed. For the first time in many lightless years 6892 prayed. Before he got to his first amen however, one of the rats cried out in agony. A horrid, relentless screeching filled his ears. As quickly as the squeals began they were snuffed out by a sickening crunching sound, which could only be the poor creature’s bones.

With the sort of valor borne out of hopeless terror, the prisoner cried out a string of curses and dove headlong toward the source of the noise. His elbows and knees tore open as he slid across the rough stone floor, but he did not stop. The prisoner’s fingers closed on something thick and scaly that extricated itself from his grip as soon as it was established followed now by the familiar sound of a tanned hide being dragged on the floor. All the while he continued to grope along the floor around him but to no avail. The intruder what ever it was had departed. His whole body was seized with an overwhelming sense of revulsion every time he thought of what the thing’s…appendage felt like. His thoughts overflowed with visions of dozens of those hellish tentacles crawling from within the waste hole attached to some unseen horror that was only waiting for the opportune moment to reveal itself. How many nights did he long for some sort of companionship? And now that he was decidedly not alone all he prayed for was a renewal of abject solitude. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. He had grown accustomed to his cell, but now all he wanted was escape. He heard the awful breathing sounds again. This time they were moving closer. He took a step away but his back bumped against the cold stone wall. And now the leathern scraping sound returned, with the sickly breathing coming inexorably nearer. He felt a scaly appendage wrap around his leg. He didn’t know how long he screamed. By the time he felt the second and third tentacle his throat felt as though it might catch fire, but he kept screaming anyway. He begged and pleaded with whatever god, that would listen for help but none was forthcoming now, or ever.

Outside the cell, two soldiers of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard listened intently to the tortured wailing behind the solid iron door.

“You see? I told you the cell was haunted.” The Captain pointed to the door as the second soldier shook his head in disbelief.

“Surely not. It’s simply occupied.” The Sergeant said in a scoffing while the true believer chuckled as he explained.

“No Sergeant. That cell has not been occupied since before the Revolution. And what’s more, that cell had been burned out and cleansed after the last occupant disappeared.” The skeptic was incredulous.

“Oh come now. What do you mean disappeared?” The storyteller fixed his companion with a piercing gaze that sparkled in the torchlight. His face split into a mischievous, knowing smile while a snickering chuckle escaped his lips.

“Come, perhaps that’s enough ghost stories for one night.” The Captain calmly turned on his heel and strode away. His friend was close behind with the muffled screams of the dead following them down the corridor.


Word Count: 2296