The Prison

by Amy Cross

“Don't concern yourself,” he replied, making his way across the room and retaking his seat. “There's just been some difficulty with a new arrival on one of the wards, but nothing to worry about. They just needed to double-check something with me, I'm afraid this particular individual had a troubled history before she came to us. Drugs and so on, plus various petty acts of vandalism.”

  “I'm sure it'll be fine,” she told him earnestly. “Whatever's wrong with the poor girl, I'm certain you'll be able to help her. She's in the best possible place.”

  “You know,” he replied with a faint smile, “you're right. I think I might be able to do a great deal for this particular individual.”

  The rest of the meal passed in silence, although every few minutes the governor happened to glance up at his wife and watch her for a few seconds. There was an expression on his face of slight bewilderment, almost as if he couldn't quite understand what was happening.

  Almost as if he expected her to disappear.

  ***

  “But what do you really think of him?” Grace asked as she leaned across Andrew and checked her phone on the bedside table. She brought up a message, read it, and quickly closed it again. “Beneath that veneer of respectability, he's pretty messed-up, right?”

  “Hardly makes him unique,” Andrew replied, looking down at her bare breasts as her nipples pressed against his chest. “I hope they don't start criminalizing weirdness, or we'll all end up inside. The thought I'm having right now, for example, are definitely not very wholesome.”

  “But that stuff with his wife...” Rolling back onto her side, she smiled. “Don't you think it's kind of creepy?”

  “What stuff with his wife?”

  “The way he keeps mentioning her like that.”

  “And?”

  “Well, you know...” She paused, waiting for him to understand, before finally she was struck by a moment of realization. “You do know about his wife, don't you?”

  “He... has one?”

  “Had one,” she replied, turning onto her side and grinning at him. “Oh my God, I can't believe you don't know! Alistair Windsor's wife died a few years ago. He was away from home, working at the last prison he ran, and someone broke into the house in the middle of the night. It was, like, a home invasion, just some random robbery, but Ruth Windsor went downstairs and disturbed the intruder, and it got violent and the guy smashed her around the back of the head with a lamp. Knocked her out cold and left her to bleed to death right there on the carpet. Alistair discovered the body when he got home the next day. They say he blamed himself ever since, thinking about how he should have been there.”

  “I had no idea. You're right, though, he does talk about her like she's waiting for him at home.”

  “Uh-huh. Creepy, huh?”

  “Sad, more like. The guy clearly hasn't moved on.”

  “Sometimes,” Grace continued, “I wonder if...”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “If what?” he asked.

  “Nothing, just...” She paused again, eying him with suspicion as if she wasn't sure, this early in their relationship – or whatever it was – to bring up something so personal.

  “Spit it out,” he said, goading her.

  “I read about ghosts once,” she continued cautiously, “about how there's this theory that each of us has one ghost in our life. Just one. It might be our Mum or our Dad, a sibling, a friend, someone we knew briefly but who was important to us, just someone significant, but we each have one ghost, and once it starts haunting us, it never really stops. And while we're waiting for our ghost to arrive, we can get haunted by other random ghosts that've got no-one else to haunt, but then when the ghost that's meant for us shows up, it kinda takes over and becomes attached to us forever.”

  “That doesn't make a whole lot of sense,” he pointed out.

  “It's just an idea. I read it in a magazine.”

  “Don't you think it's more likely that he's just nuts? That he thinks his wife is still around and he's kind of losing his mind?

  “I guess that's one possibility.” She paused, wishing she'd not said anything but aware that it was too late to back out now. “So who'd be your ghost?”

  “My ghost?”

  “If we each get only one, who'd haunt you?” She watched his expression for any hint of an answer. “Someone special, someone who's been important in your life.” She paused again. “Sorry, dumb question. I guess it'd probably be -”

  “I don't know,” he said quickly, interrupting her.

  “Sorry, I just thought maybe it would have been -”

  “I don't know,” he said again, more firmly this time.

  “Okay,” she said with a forced smile. “I'm sorry, I -”

  “Who'd be your ghost?” he asked.

  She stared at him for a moment, as if she was deep in thought.

  “You,” she said finally.

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Just kidding,” she added, smiling as she leaned toward him. After looking at his lips for a moment, she began to kiss him gently.

  One year ago

  “Okay,” Andrew said with a smile, as he fastened his belt, “that was... That was good, Sabrina. Maybe we should get on with the assessment program, though.”

  Patting her on the back, he made his way around the desk and took a seat.

  “Got a lot of experience with this sort of thing, have you?” he asked, glancing at her as he opened the folder. “I saw in your file that you got into trouble for being sexually aggressive with some guys in your neighborhood. You like that sort of thing, don't you?”

  Staring at him for a moment, Sabrina suddenly turned and looked over toward the door.

  “Remember,” Andrew continued, “no-one else needs to know about our arrangement. It's just my way of making you feel as if you contribute. Doesn't it make you feel good to know that you're helping someone else?”

  She opened her mouth, as if she was about to say something.

  “It's nice to help people, isn't it?” he continued. “I think that's a problem in modern society, actually. Most people are so obsessed with material things and with themselves, they forget to gain satisfaction from giving pleasure to others, and that creates a void in their lives that just can't be filled by movies or the internet.” Looking down at the folder, he took out the questionnaire. “So now that you've helped me, it's time for me to -”

  Suddenly Sabrina got to her feet, swaying a little as if she felt unsteady.

  “Are you okay?” Andrew asked. “Sabrina, I'd like you to sit down.”

  She took a couple of steps forward, making her way around the desk, before stopping and staring at him.

  “Sabrina,” he continued, “I'm glad that you're finally showing some degree of interest in the world around you, but for this next part of the session I need you to take a seat and answer the questions as I ask them. There are one hundred of them, so it'll be a long process, but I need to determined what kind of -”

  He stopped as she stumbled toward him.

  “Sabrina?”

  He waited, but she simply stared at him.

  “Okay,” he continued cautiously, getting to his feet, “I think maybe we should -”

  Before he could finish, she launched herself at him, knocking him back against the wall and biting down hard against the side of his neck.

  Today

  “Lights out in twenty!” one of the guards shouted.

  “Hear that?” Robin asked, watching Amanda from the bunk on the opposite side of the room. “It means -”

  “Lights out in twenty minutes,” Amanda replied, looking up from the notebook she was using as a kind of makeshift diary. “I figured.” She got back to work, but she was uncomfortably aware that her cellmate was watching her every move.

  “What you writing in there?” Robin asked eventually.

  “Nothing.”

  “Sure been at it for a long time.”

  “It's just...” She paused, stari
ng down at the jumble of half-expressed thoughts and ideas she'd been jotting down for the past hour. None of it made much sense, not even to her, and she figured it would seem almost insane to anyone else. Insane and pathetic. “Nothing.”

  “How'd it go with your visitor?”

  “Fine.”

  “Just fine? Not fantastic? Not awful?”

  “Just fine.”

  “So are you always this quiet, or is this just you getting used to a new environment?”

  “I'm...” Looking over at Robin, she realized that it was a genuine question rather than an attempt to get under her skin. She felt bad, but at the same time she knew it would be a risk to get too attached to anyone. “I guess I'm always like this. I've got a lot on my mind, too.”

  “So who was your visitor?” she asked, getting off the bed and grabbing a towel before heading to the door. “Boyfriend? I bet a pretty girl like you has got some hot stud on the go, am I right?”

  “It was no-one.”

  “Huh. You've sure got a lot of nothings and no-ones in your life, haven't you?”

  “Just someone from the past.”

  “Whatever. I'm heading to the powder room to de-stink myself before we get locked in this confined space together for the night. That was a hint, by the way. No offense, but I'd appreciate it if you could do the same. You know, just some basic hygiene, it's only polite when we're living together in such close proximity.”

  “I'll be along in a minute.”

  “Smells sure can build up in a little cell,” Robin muttered, heading out into the corridor. “That's all I'm saying.” She could still be heard talking to herself as she made her way toward the washroom.

  Seconds later, there was the sound of cheering from elsewhere on the wing.

  Taking a deep breath, Amanda turned back to look at some of the earlier pages in her notebook. She'd been trying to draft a letter to James, something that would explain to him gently that she didn't want any more visitors, that she just wanted to cut her ties with her old life and start over without any painful memories. The thought of her husband making regular four-hour round trips was too much to bear, and she knew there was a danger that he'd end up ruining his life for her. All she wanted was for him to be happy, for him to move on, and that meant that she needed to be cold and perhaps a little mean. Over and over, she'd tried to find a way to phrase things so that he wouldn't be hurt, but she was starting to realize that it was an impossible ask: they'd married young, just a few years ago, and she knew that he loved her deeply, so breaking things off could never be clean and easy. Nevertheless, she had no choice, because she just wanted to stop hurting him.

  “Jesus,” she whispered, wiping a stray tear from her eye. “Why can't I just -”

  Before she could finish, she became aware of a shape moving in the far corner of the cell. At first she told herself it was nothing; just as she was about to turn and take a look, however, she froze. The shape was a person, that much was clear, but even without looking at it directly she could tell that it was a child, wearing some kind of white dress that was at odds with the gray uniforms of the inmates. Telling herself that she had to be wrong, that she was jumping to the wrong conclusion, she tried to come up with a better answer, even as she stared straight ahead.

  Just look, she told herself. It's not like any of those stories are actually true, so just look. It can't be a child.

  She paused.

  Slowly, the child – or the shape, whatever it was – seemed to take a step to the side, as if it was trying to get closer to the center of her field of vision.

  Forcing herself to keep from turning completely, and focusing instead on the sink over by the door, Amanda felt the hairs on the back of her neck starting to stand up as she realized that she couldn't deny what was happening: there was a little girl in the cell with her, watching intently. Still, that didn't mean it was a ghost.

  Ghosts don't exist, she reminded herself, so grow up, stop being irrational, and look at the damn thing.

  Outside in the corridor, two women walked past, talking loudly to one another.

  Amanda looked over to the door, but although she wanted to get up and run out of the cell, something seemed to be holding her in place, as if her mind couldn't communicate the urgency of the situation to the rest of her body. She tried again and again, but there was definitely some kind of force keeping her in the chair. After a moment, she realized that the room seemed to be getting colder, as if all the warmth was being drawn away and replaced by a creeping chill, as if something cold was moving toward her.

  Behind her, she could hear footsteps getting closer. Soft, bare footsteps on the cell's stone floor.

  Slowly, she began to turn her head back toward the other side of the room, but she stopped as soon as she saw out of the corner of her eye that the little girl had come much closer, and was now within touching distance. She wanted to turn and look properly, to see the eyes of whatever vision had appeared to her, but she couldn't ignore the warnings she'd heard earlier, even though at the time she'd dismissed them as nothing but a bunch of scare stories.

  It's not a ghost, she told herself again. Ghosts don't exist.

  “This is ridiculous,” Amanda said out loud, trying to fight off the irrational sense of fear that was starting to burn in her chest. “You're not here. You can be r-”

  Suddenly the girl took another step toward her, until she was just a few inches away.

  “Okay,” Amanda continued, taking deep breaths as she tried to summon the strength to get to her feet. She looked over at the door again, hoping that Robin might come back at any moment, but seconds later she felt something brushing against her knee and she realized that the little girl was slowly walking around her, as if if to force herself into her field of vision.

  She waited.

  The girl appeared closer than ever in the corner of her eye, staring straight at her, almost making eye contact.

  “You're not real,” Amanda whispered through gritted teeth. All she had to do was turn her gaze a little to one side, only a fraction of a degree, and she'd be looking directly at the girl.

  She waited.

  The girl leaned closer.

  Instinctively, Amanda closed her eyes.

  She could still hear the little girl, though, and she knew that if she opened her eyes, she'd be staring straight at her.

  So what? she told herself. It's either a hallucination or an actual little girl. It can't be a ghost.

  “Go away,” she whispered. “Please, just go away. You're not even real. This is just... I'm losing my mind. It's normal in this kind of situation.” She paused, pitifully aware that she was trying to talk herself out of her fear. “Please,” she continued, “just go away.”

  She began to shiver, as the air around her became even colder. Even with her eyes closed, she could tell that the girl's face was less than an inch from hers.

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, the experience seemed to fade. The air returned to its normal temperature, and although she still wasn't willing to open her eyes, she felt as if the 'sense' of another person nearby had gone away. Somehow, she could tell she was alone again.

  It was over.

  Slowly, she began to open her eyes.

  She was right.

  The girl – the thing, the whatever-the-hell-it-was – had gone.

  “Karen!” Robin shouted in the corridor. “Seeya tomorrow! We still on for that game of chess?”

  Turning to look at the door, Amanda watched with relief as Robin wandered into the room with a towel over her shoulder.

  “You alright?” Robin asked with a grin. “Still doodling in your little book, are you?”

  Looking back toward the little girl, Amanda still couldn't quite believe that it was over. She turned to look back at the corner where the girl had first appeared, but there was no sign of anyone.

  “So you're still gonna go wash, yeah?” Robin continued, dropping her towel onto a chair before heading over to her bunk
. “I don't want to be smelling your clammy lady juices during the night, if you know what I mean. There's a time and a place for that sort of thing.”

  “No,” Amanda replied, getting to her feet and looking all around the room, half-expecting to see the little girl again. Her heart was racing and although she was immensely relieved that the experience was over, she was still trying to work out what, exactly, she'd seen. There was one thing she knew for certain, though: ghosts didn't exist. They couldn't, it was just the most insanely ridiculous idea in the world.

  “What's wrong?” Robin asked. “Something bothering you?”

  “I...” Turning to her, Amanda paused for a moment. “That story you told me earlier, the one about the ghost...”

  “Leonara Blake? What about her?”

  “You said that the most important thing is to never look directly into her eyes.”

  “And?”

  “You... didn't finish. You didn't tell me what happens to someone if they do look into her eyes.”

  “Yeah I did.” She smiled as she ran a finger across her neck. “I told you, they die.”

  “Immediately?”

  “Not always. Sometimes it's quick, sometimes it takes a few hours, maybe even a day or two, but it's pretty much inevitable, at least from what I've heard. Hell, I even read about this guy a while ago, he was, like, the assistant to some government minister who came poking about before Hardstone was opened. Apparently this guy told his girlfriend a few hours later that he thought he'd seen a little girl at one of the windows. Seems innocuous enough, right? Except that the next morning, she found him in the bathroom and he'd cut his wrists. Every drop of blood was gone from his body and he was dead as a doornail. Look him up if you ever get online, his name was double-barreled, Downing-Jones or something like that. Seriously, it's freaky. Of course, everyone laughed it off, saying it was a coincidence, but it makes you think, doesn't it?”

  “Yeah,” Amanda replied, feeling a shiver pass through her body.

  “Why?” Robin continued with a grin, “What's wrong? You didn't get into a staring contest with a spooky little ghost kid, did you?”