TRUE Prison Guard's Paranormal Experiences Stories

TRUE Prison Guard's Paranormal Experiences Stories

Episode Transcript

(00:00):
Story one Nights in prison have a different kind of quiet.
It's not peaceful. It's the kind that presses down
on your ears until you start hearing your own heartbeat.
The concrete seems to absorb every bit of warmth, every bit
of sound, until all that's left is the hum of the lights and the
occasional clang of metal settling somewhere deep in the

(00:20):
block. That's the silence I lived with
on my midnight shift at the state Correctional Facility.
I'd work nights for almost 6 years, long enough to know that
boredom is your best friend. When things are quiet, you stay
alive, and that's a fair trade. The thing about corrections work
is that the place never really sleeps, even when the inmates
do. The building doesn't.

(00:42):
Pipes grown, fans rattle, the old plumbing screams out for no
reason. You start recognizing every
noise, like a song you've memorized over time.
But sometimes there's something new, something you can't file
away under old building. It happened a few years back,
right after an inmate hung himself in one of the
segregation cells. It was tragic, but not unheard

(01:04):
of. The man had been mentally
unstable, and even though the officers had checked on him
regularly, it only takes a few minutes for something like that
to go wrong. After that, the cell stayed
empty. Paperwork said it was under
maintenance, but everyone knew it was just left alone.
Nobody liked walking past it, not even during rounds.

(01:24):
Three weeks later, I was assigned to see Block on the
midnight shift. I remember thinking how the air
in that unit always smelled faintly metallic, like rust or
blood that had been scrubbed to clean.
The lights buzzed overhead in long rows, half of them
flickering. Because maintenance never fixed
anything on time, I started my rounds just like always,

(01:45):
quietly, methodically shining myflashlight through each small
glass window in the cell doors. You learn not to make eye
contact with inmates, even when they're asleep.
They feel it. Somehow.
Everything was normal for the first couple of hours.
A few snores, one guy pacing, the usual.
The cell where the suicide happened, Cell 213 sat near the

(02:09):
end of the row. I remember thinking I'd pass it
quick just to get it over with, but when I reached it, my
stomach turned cold. Through the narrow window, in
the sweep of my light, I saw what looked like a man hanging.
At first I thought it was some sick joke.
Maybe maintenance left somethingthere by accident.
I moved closer, squinting through the glass, and saw the

(02:30):
outline, clear as day. A human figure, limp, swaying
slightly. The head was tilted to one side,
the shoulders slumped, and the shadow of a rope stretched up
toward the ceiling beam. Every part of me went cold.
My first thought wasn't ghosts or anything supernatural.
It was. We've got another one.

(02:51):
So I called it in over my radio,trying to keep my voice steady.
But before I could finish the report, the figure just wasn't
there anymore. One blink and it was gone.
I stood frozen, staring at the same spot, my light reflecting
off bare concrete. The cell was completely empty.
No rope, no body, nothing. The air inside looks still

(03:15):
untouched, the way it always did.
I felt stupid, like maybe the flickering light had tricked me
or my eyes had adjusted weird. Still, I unlocked the door and
stepped inside, just to be sure.The temperature in there was
different, colder, like walking into a room where someone had
just opened a freezer. I checked the ceiling, corners,

(03:36):
under the bunk, everything. Nothing but dust in the faint
smell of disinfectant. I was about to leave when I
noticed the sound. It was faint, like something
rubbing against metal, a creak that came and went, the kind of
sound rope makes when it twists.It lasted maybe 5 seconds, then
stopped. The silence that followed was

(03:56):
worse. I backed out and shut the door
hard enough to make it echo downthe block.
I told myself it was old pipes or an air vent vibrating loose,
but I couldn't shake how it had sounded so deliberate, like
movement, not machinery. When I got back to the guard
station, my Co worker looked at me and asked if I was all right.
He said I look pale and I brushed it off, telling him the

(04:18):
lights were acting up again. I didn't mention what I saw.
You don't talk about things likethat on the job.
Once the rumor starts that you're seeing things, you're
done. I went back out for the next
round, determined to prove to myself that I'd imagined it.
The prison runs on routine. If you break it, the place eats
you alive. So I walk the same path, same

(04:40):
order, same rhythm of steps, everything was the same until I
reached 213 again. The moment I turned the corner,
I felt it. The cold hit before I even got
close. My flashlight beam shook just
slightly and I told myself to hold it steady.
When I looked through the windowagain, the cell was dark, darker

(05:01):
than it should have been, like the light from the hall refused
to go inside. And then for half a second I
thought I saw the shape again, only this time not hanging, but
standing in the corner. I blinked and it was gone.
That time I didn't open the door.
I just logged the cell as secured and kept walking.
My hands wouldn't stop sweating,and every time I turned another

(05:23):
corner I felt like something wasjust a few steps behind me.
No footsteps, just presence. The kind of thing you can't see
but can feel pressing on your back.
For the rest of the night, I kept my eyes on the surveillance
monitors whenever I could. Nothing ever appeared on the
cameras. They all worked fine except the
one pointing toward 213. That one flickered black every

(05:46):
few minutes. I told myself a lot of things
over the next few weeks that I was tired, that maybe my mind
had filled in the blanks after hearing too many stories about
that cell. I even asked maintenance to
check the light fixture, pretending it was about
visibility for rounds. They said everything looked
fine, no wiring issues, no loosebulbs, nothing.
A month later, another officer, new guy, took over my shift one

(06:10):
night. He came in the next morning
looking unsettled, saying something weird had happened on
his rounds. He said he could have sworn he
heard a man gasping for air inside an empty cell.
He didn't say which one, but I didn't need to ask.
To this day, cell 213 still getspassed by quicker than the
others. Nobody likes stopping there for
long. Now and then I'll hear from

(06:32):
someone who's worked that block saying they've seen shadows move
or heard something Creek above them, like a weight shifting
where there shouldn't be one. I've gone back a few times since
then, mostly out of stubbornness, just to see if the
feeling would fade. It never does.
The air in that spot stays cold,and if you stand still long

(06:52):
enough, it feels like someone else is standing right beside
you. Maybe it's the building
settling. Maybe it's leftover energy from
a tragedy, or maybe it's just the human brain trying to make
sense of silence that's too deep.
All I know is that I still see it sometimes when I close my
eyes, a faint outline in the dark, swaying just slightly,

(07:13):
waiting for someone to notice. Story 2.
There's a certain kind of silence that only old prisons
have. Thick, heavy and mean.
It doesn't just fill the air, itpresses down on you like the
walls themselves. Remember every scream and won't
let go of the sound. That's what it felt like every
time I walked the old tunnel that ran beneath C Block.

(07:34):
It used to connect the segregation wing to the old
intake area before renovation sealed most of it off.
By the time I started working there.
It was only used when someone needed to be escorted during
maintenance or during those rarelate night transfers.
Nobody like that tunnel. I didn't either.
But back then I was still new enough not to say no to an

(07:55):
assignment. I'd work the night shift at that
state Correctional Facility for five years, and routine had a
way of dulling your instincts. The clang of gates, the hum of
the fluorescence, the faint echoof distant voices, it all became
background noise. But that tunnel was different.
Every sound carried too far and came back wrong, as if the place

(08:17):
didn't just echo, it mimicked The shift that changed Things
started around 11:30 PM. I've been asked to escort a
maintenance tech down through the tunnel to check one of the
old drain valves. It wasn't a long walk, maybe 100
yards, but it twisted just enough to block out the light
from both ends. The overhead bulbs flickered

(08:37):
like dying fireflies, and half of them hadn't worked in
decades. You could see the rust creeping
down the walls like veins. We started our walk, me leading
the way with my flashlight, the tech trailing behind with his
tool bag. The air was damp and cold,
carrying that metallic smell of old water and mold.
Each step sounded louder than itshould have.

(08:59):
There was no breeze down there, but somehow every so often you'd
feel a faint current of air against your neck, like the
place exhaled. At first it was uneventful, just
the usual low hum of pipes and the occasional drip of
condensation hitting the floor. Then, about halfway through, I
heard something faint behind us.Soft, rhythmic, like someone

(09:20):
jogging at a distance. It was light at first, almost
easy to ignore, but within seconds it grew louder, echoing
hard off the concrete walls. I turned around sharply, my
flashlight cutting through the tunnel behind us.
Nothing, just a stretch of dim light and darkness.
The text stopped moving. I remember the way he froze,

(09:42):
head tilted like he was trying to pick apart the sound to the
footsteps stopped right when I turned.
I thought maybe it was sound bouncing from another quarter,
but there was no other corridor.That tunnel was isolated, sealed
at both ends by steel doors thatonly we had keys to.
We stood there for a moment, waiting.
The silence afterward was so sharp it made my ears ring.

(10:05):
I told myself it was probably just the echo of our own boots,
distorted by the tunnel. That explanation made sense,
mostly. So we kept moving, both of us
quiet now, every step feeling heavier.
By the time we reached the valvechamber, I could feel sweat on
my back, even though the air wasfreezing.
The tech started checking his gauges, muttering to himself,

(10:28):
and I tried to keep my attentionon the far end of the tunnel.
I didn't want to admit it, but Ifelt watched.
Not just from One Direction, from everywhere, like the walls
themselves had eyes. While I waited, I started
noticing something off. My flashlight beam would dim
just slightly every now and then.
Not flicker, but fade. Like the battery was dying.

(10:50):
Except it wasn't. I'd swapped it earlier that
evening, Brand new batteries. The air also felt heavier, as if
the oxygen had thinned. My chest felt tight.
I told the tech to wrap it up, and we started heading back.
That's when the footsteps came again, only this time they
weren't behind us. They were ahead.

(11:10):
The sound was faster, sharper, like boots hitting wet concrete
at a run. The light didn't reach far
enough to show anything, and I wasn't about to walk toward it.
I yelled for whoever it was to stop, even though I knew no one
should be down there. My voice came back hollow,
warped. The running stopped, then
something else. A short, heavy sigh.

(11:32):
The kind someone makes when they're right behind you and too
close. The hairs on the back of my neck
stood up before I even processedit.
I turned fast, sweeping the light behind me.
The tech was there, but his facewas pale.
His eyes weren't on me, he was staring past me.
I followed his gaze to the spacejust to my left.
Nothing visible, but I swear I felt something move, like the

(11:56):
air shifted in a way that had weight to it.
I caught a faint sound, almost like a breath brushing my ear,
followed by a low whisper that formed my name.
Not loud, not threatening, just clear.
Familiar, almost, but wrong. Too deep, too strained.
That was enough. We didn't talk about it, we

(12:16):
didn't investigate, we just walked fast.
I could hear the text boots scuffing behind me, and I didn't
look back once. When we reached the gate, I shut
it and locked it harder than necessary, hands shaking more
than I'd like to admit. When we finally got back to the
main building, the noise of the radios in the hum of the
fluorescence felt like a relief.I signed the maintenance log and

(12:40):
kept it short, just routine inspection completed, nothing
else. But just as I was about to clock
out, I heard it again, faint from just over my shoulder.
A deep exhale, followed by that same gravelly whisper of my
name. I turned so fast I nearly
knocked over the clipboard, but the hall was empty.

(13:00):
My partner for the next shift walked in seconds later and gave
me a look like I'd seen a ghost.Maybe I had.
I didn't stay to find out. I went straight to the captain
the next morning and requested apost change.
I told him I'd had a panic episode in the tunnels.
He didn't ask questions. Maybe he'd heard enough stories
over the years not to. I've replayed that night 100

(13:22):
times since, trying to make sense of it.
The rational side of me insists it was a combination of echoes,
cold drafts, and exhaustion. Maybe the tunnels acoustics did
something weird with sound. Maybe the whisper was just air
venting through the old ducks. Story 3.
There's a strange kind of quiet that settles over prisons at

(13:43):
night. It's not peaceful.
It's heavy, like the air itself is holding its breath.
You feel it in your chest when you walk.
The tears, the silence pressing down between the concrete and
steel. I never used to notice it until
the pandemic hit. Once the inmates were locked
down and the noise died out, that quiet started to sound

(14:04):
wrong, almost like the building itself was listening back.
I've worked as a corrections officer in Michigan for over a
decade, most of it in a medium security prison built in the
late 70s. It's old, the kind of place
where the pipes grown every timeyou flush and the walls smell
like bleach no matter how much you clean.
During COVID, staffing got thin and I ended up assigned to one

(14:27):
of the older units that had beenmostly shut down.
We were using it temporarily to separate positive cases from the
general population. The rest of the wing, half of it
anyway, had been condemned yearsbefore because of water damage
and black mold. They sealed the hallway with a
metal fire door, chained and locked.
No one was supposed to be on that side.

(14:48):
That night I was covering a shift alone on the 2nd floor,
Just me, the radios, and a few inmates sleeping in isolation
cells. The fluorescent lights hummed
overhead, flickering every so often.
I was doing my usual rounds, scanning each door, checking
temperature logs, the usual routine.
It was boring work, the kind that makes you too aware of

(15:09):
time. Every tick of the clock felt
loud enough to echo. Sometime around 2, AMI started
hearing a sound. It wasn't loud at first, just a
dull thud, like someone tapping a door with their fist.
I thought maybe one of the inmates was acting up, but all
the cells were locked and quiet.I waited, thinking it might

(15:29):
stop, but then it came again, harder this time, a deep
metallic bang that rattled through the floor.
I walked toward it, tracing the sound down the quarter until I
realized it was coming from the condemned side.
The fire door at the end of the hallway look the same as always,
paint peeling, padlock still in place, but the sound was

(15:50):
definitely coming from behind it.
I stood there for a moment, halfexpecting it to stop.
When I got close, it didn't. The bangs came faster, like
someone was slamming their handsagainst the other side of the
door. I called it in over the radio,
telling the control room what I was hearing.
The line crackled, but nobody answered.
I tried again and again, but allI got was static.

(16:13):
I thought maybe the metal walls were blocking the signal.
It happens sometimes in that unit.
Still, it didn't help the feeling crawling up the back of
my neck. The air around the door felt
colder. It wasn't just a draft, it was
sharp, like stepping into a freezer.
My skin prickled and my hair stood up.
I shine my flashlight through the small wired glass window in

(16:33):
the door, but all I could see was darkness.
Thick, pitch black, like the beam couldn't push through it.
I remember holding the light steady for a few seconds longer
than I needed to, just trying tosee something.
Then I heard a scrape, like metal dragging on concrete,
faint but close. It stopped as soon as I stepped

(16:54):
back. I told myself there was a
logical reason. Maybe air pressure shifting
between sealed rooms. Maybe rats.
Maybe the door itself expanding from temperature changes.
Buildings that old make sounds, especially with no one
maintaining them. But I couldn't explain the cold
or the way the hairs on my arms stayed standing even after I

(17:15):
stepped back down the hall. For the rest of the shift, I
kept hearing small noises. Not bangs anymore, but softer
sounds like movement. Footsteps maybe pacing slowly
behind that wall each time I glance up, expecting someone to
come out. But the door stayed closed.
I must have checked it half a dozen times before sunrise,

(17:36):
trying to convince myself it wasjust my imagination.
The next day I told one of the senior officers about it.
He laughed it off, said everyonehears things in that old unit.
But then he told me something I didn't know, that the condemned
section used to be a segregationwing back in the 80s.
According to him, one of the inmates had been left alone for

(17:56):
a week during a lockdown. They sealed the area not long
after, claiming it was because of water leaks, but everyone
knew it wasn't just that. That was years ago.
Still, every time I got assignedto that post, I'd feel uneasy
walking past that door. I tell myself it was just an old
story passed down to mess with rookies, but something about

(18:17):
that night felt different, too specific to ignore.
A few weeks later, the power in that unit cut out during another
night shift. Total blackout.
I had only my flashlight and theemergency backup lights, which
barely worked. As I made my way to check the
circuit room, I passed by that same fire door again.
The temperature dropped immediately.

(18:38):
I could see my breath. I don't know why I stopped, but
I did, shining the light once more through the window.
For a split second, I thought I saw something move.
Not clearly, just a shape darkerthan the dark around it.
It vanished as fast as I saw it.I stepped back and almost
dropped the flashlight. My heart was pounding so hard I

(18:58):
could hear it. I waited, hoping it was just a
trick of the light. But then the banging came again,
not distant this time, Closer, harder, shaking the frame of the
door like someone was trapped behind it.
The rational part of me broke for a second.
I ran straight down the hall, through the control booth and

(19:19):
out to the yard. I must have looked insane,
standing out there with my flashlight, trying to catch my
breath in the cold air. When I finally got control back,
I went inside, made sure all theisolation cells were still
secure. Every one of them was locked
tight. No one could have moved without
me knowing. I didn't tell anyone about the
second night. What would I say?

(19:41):
That the dead were knocking? That I'd felt cold where no vent
existed? They just laugh again.
Maybe I would have laughed too, if it hadn't been for what
happened during my last shift inthat unit.
Maintenance finally came throughto inspect the condemned
section. They cut the lock, open the door
and stepped inside. I was standing behind them
holding the light. The air that came out was

(20:04):
freezing even though it was mid-july.
The men went in, checking the old cells and plumbing lines.
Everything was exactly as expected.
Collapsed ceiling tiles, crackedfloors, rusted bars.
But as they move toward the back, one of them called me
over. There were deep scratches on the
inside of the heavy steel door, long ones overlapping, almost

(20:27):
like fingernail marks. No one could explain them.
No tools matched. No recent entries were recorded.
The last maintenance log dates back to 2003.
They sealed it again later that day.
New lock, new chain. I've worked plenty of shifts
since, but I've never gone back inside that unit.

(20:47):
Still, now and then, when the halls get too quiet, I swear I
can hear it. The faintest echo of metal being
struck, like something waiting behind that door for someone to
listen. Maybe it's just the pipes, or
maybe some noises don't stop just because the living have
stopped making them. Story 4.
There's a certain kind of quiet that only exists inside prisons

(21:08):
at night. It's not peace, it's pressure.
The air doesn't rest, it watchesevery Creek.
Every distant clang of a gate sounds like it's waiting for you
to make the wrong move. That's what it felt like the
night I saw the faces in the cell windows.
I worked the third shift at a medium security Correctional
Facility that used to be a psychiatric institution before

(21:30):
it was converted. You could still tell by the
layout, tight hallways, reinforced doors and those tiny
square windows with wire mesh running through them.
The inmates called it the Maze, and they weren't wrong.
Even after a year working there,I'd still get turned around if I
wasn't paying attention. The night started like any other

(21:50):
a normal round lights out at 10,final headcount at 11.
I remember the air being unusually cold for late summer.
The heating system wasn't on yet, but the chill in the
hallways felt sharper than usual, like walking through a
place that didn't want you there.
Most guards didn't like patrolling the old segregation
wing. It hadn't been used in years,

(22:13):
not since they moved the high risk inmates to a newer section,
but the Sergeant wanted all wings logged once per night, and
that night it was my turn. I didn't think much of it.
I'd walk those halls before theywere empty, cleaned out long
ago. The only thing that made it
eerie was the old cell doors, each one with that square window
at eye level, each one staring back like a blind face.

(22:36):
My flashlight was starting to dim halfway down the quarter,
but it was enough to see the peeling paint in the faint rust
trails under every handle. I'd made it about halfway when I
started hearing a soft tapping. At first I thought it was the
light fixture above me cooling down.
It sometimes made noises after abulb burned out, but this was
different. It came from further down,

(22:57):
steady, like knuckles rapping lightly against glass.
I froze, trying to pinpoint where it came from.
Every door looked the same, but the sound was definitely from
one of the old isolation cells at the end of the hall.
I took a few cautious steps forward.
The tapping stopped. I stood still for a few seconds,
shining my light back and forth.Nothing moved, no shadows, no

(23:20):
signs of life. I told myself it was probably a
rodent, or the metal shifting inthe cold air.
Old buildings do that, they breathe in strange ways.
But when I turned to finish the round, the sound started again,
only louder, not tapping this time, but a slow dragging
scrape, like fingernails on the inside of a window.

(23:42):
My stomach dropped. I walked toward the noise, even
though everything in me scream not to.
The beam of my flashlight cut across the cell doors, 1 by 1,
until it hit the last one on theright, cell 217.
The door was sealed, No lights, no movement.
But behind the small square of reinforced glass, there was a
face. It was so quick I almost missed

(24:04):
it. Just a pale, distorted outline
pressed against the window. Then it was gone.
I blinked, convinced my mind hadmade it up.
But when I stepped closer, thereit was again.
Cheekbones. A faint outline of eyes in the
suggestion of a mouth. Not a reflection, not my own.
It was looking right at me from the dark side of the glass.

(24:27):
I stood there, frozen for several seconds, flashlight
trembling in my hand. The rational part of my brain
scrambled for explanations. Maybe it was the reflection of
my light on the inner panel. Maybe condensation formed weird
shapes. Maybe my eyes were playing
tricks. But then it moved, slowly, as if
it leaned closer, until the features were clearer.

(24:48):
Sunken eyes, thin lips, skin so pale it almost glowed against
the darkness behind it. I took a step back, nearly
tripping over my own boots. The cell was supposed to be
empty. All of them were.
I radioed the control room, toldthem I might have seen movement
in the old segregation wing. They asked if I was sure,
because no inmates were assignedthere, and the last check showed

(25:11):
all doors locked. I said I was sure, though my
voice must have betrayed how shaken I was.
They sent another officer to meet me halfway down the
corridor. I kept my eyes on that door the
whole time. The face didn't move again.
It just stayed there, faintly visible through The Dirty glass.
When my partner arrived, I told him what I saw.

(25:32):
He gave me that look, the kind people give when they think
you've been staring into the dark too long.
We both shown our flashlights through the window, but the face
was gone. Nothing but an empty cell with a
layer of dust thick enough to write on.
We open the door to check. The air that came out was
freezing, like walking into a refrigerator.

(25:52):
There were no footprints, no sign anyone had been inside,
just an old bed frame bolted to the floor and a cracked sink.
We logged it as a false alarm, but even the other guard
admitted the temperature felt off.
That should have been the end ofit.
I tried to brush it off, tell myself it was the light catching
residue on the glass, maybe my own reflection distorted by the

(26:14):
mesh. But the next night I had the
same round, and when I reached that same stretch of hallway, I
felt it again, that prickling sense that I wasn't alone this
time. I move faster, not stopping
until I was past cell 217. My flashlight swept across the
door window for barely a second,and that was enough.

(26:35):
The face was there again, but itwasn't the same.
The features look different. Longer nose, sharper chin, same
hollow stare. I didn't stop to look twice.
I turned and left the wing, pretending I hadn't seen
anything. I never mentioned it again to
anyone at the facility. But over the months that
followed, story started circulating.

(26:56):
Other night guards said they sawsomething in the unused block,
too. Faces in windows, shadows moving
between cells. One guy swore he saw someone
standing behind him in a locked room when he checked the monitor
footage. Another said he heard someone
breathing right next to him in the dark.
The strange part is when the prison first opened, a few of

(27:17):
the older staff used to joke that the place was haunted by
its past. They meant it literally.
The building had housed inmates who never made it out alive.
Executions, suicides, murders and solitary confinement.
Records showed at least a dozen deaths in that wing alone before
it was sealed off. Still, I can't say what I saw

(27:37):
was anything supernatural. I've replayed it in my head
countless times trying to rationalize it.
Maybe the wire mesh distorted the light into something that
looked like a face. Maybe moisture or dirt caught
the reflection in just the rightway.
That's what I tell myself when Ithink about it too long.
But there's something that always sticks with me.
Something small but hard to shake.

(28:00):
The morning after that second sighting, I went to the
segregation wing. In daylight, the cell door
looked normal, just like all theothers.
But when I leaned close to inspect the glass, I noticed
faint smudges, like handprints on the inside.
They were old, blurred by time, but some streaks look like
someone had dragged their fingers downward from where a

(28:21):
face might have pressed. No one had been in that cell in
over 10 years. Maybe the building just
remembers what it used to hold. Maybe the walls still echo with
faces that once looked out, waiting for someone to notice
them again. Or maybe some things don't leave
even when the doors are locked for good.
All I know is I stopped taking the night rounds after that.

(28:41):
And whenever I pass that wing now, even in daylight, I swear
the glass seems darker on that one cell door, like it's still
holding on to the shape of something that shouldn't be
there. Story 5.
Some nights feel like they stretch wider than the walls can
hold. You start to think the darkness
is alive, pressing in from everycorner, listening.

(29:02):
That's how the night shift at the prison usually felt, long,
heavy, and full of silence that didn't belong.
I worked there for nearly six years, and if you asked me to
describe what it was like at 3:00 AM inside those concrete
corridors, I'd say it felt like standing underwater with your
own heartbeat echoing too loud. The place itself was old, one of

(29:23):
those century old state facilities that kept being
temporarily used even after new prisons were built.
Paint flaked off the walls, plumbing grown like an old man
clearing his throat, and every door slammed like it meant it.
We called the older wing the Pit.
It hadn't held inmates in years.Most of the cells there were
gutted out or used for storage, but every once in a while night

(29:47):
staff were sent down there to double check alarms, make sure
no one had broken in, or confirmno inmate had slipped through
the wrong door that night. I was the unlucky 1.
The Sergeant on duty asked me towalk the lower wing because one
of the motion sensors had triggered twice in less than an
hour. He said it was probably a rat or
bad wiring, but protocol was protocol.

(30:10):
I took the keys, flashlight and radio and started down the
hallway. The pit was colder than the rest
of the prison. You could feel it the moment you
step through the steel gate, like crossing into a different
building entirely. The lights flickered weakly
overhead and half of them buzzedlike angry insects.
My boots echoed so loud against the floor that I started walking

(30:32):
softer just to hear anything else.
I checked the first row of cells, empty like always.
Just metal bunks, peeling paint,and the smell of rust.
The deeper I went, the heavier the air got.
It wasn't just cold anymore, it was dense, like breathing
through wet cloth. When I reached the third
cellblock, my radio crackled softly.

(30:53):
I tried to call it in, but all Igot was static.
Not unusual, since reception in that part of the prison was
terrible. I decided to finish the round
quickly. That's when I heard something
that didn't belong. A voice.
It wasn't clear at first, more like a low mudder, the way
someone talks from another room.I stopped walking.

(31:13):
The sound was coming from further down, near the old
solitary cells. Every instinct told me no one
should be there. That part of the wing was sealed
except for the maintenance door.Still, I called out, asking if
someone was down there. My voice echoed, came back
twice, then died. No reply.
I tried again, louder. Nothing.

(31:35):
I took a few steps closer. The air was freezing by then,
cold enough that I could see my breath.
My flashlight caught the edges of the solitary door at the far
end. It was slightly open.
That didn't make sense, those doors were supposed to stay
bolted. The voice came again, only this
time it was clearer. It sounded like someone
whispering right beside my ear, though no one was there. 2

(31:58):
words, slow, dragging, almost calm.
It said there was no inmate. That froze me.
I didn't understand what it meant.
No inmate where, The cell, the wing, the whole place.
I swung the flashlight around, convinced someone was hiding
nearby. The beam caught nothing but
empty space. My heart was pounding so loud it

(32:21):
hurt. I took a step back, trying to
tell myself it was just an echo or my mind playing tricks in the
quiet. But before I could move again,
the voice returned, louder this time, right behind me.
It wasn't calm anymore. It hissed, sharp and fast,
telling me to kill myself. I can't describe the cold that

(32:41):
hit me then. It felt like the air got sucked
out of the room, like the whole building took a deep breath and
forgot to let go. Every muscle in my body locked
up. I couldn't turn around, couldn't
even raise the flashlight. I just stood there, frozen, with
that voice replaying in my head like it was inside me now
instead of outside. When I finally snapped out of

(33:02):
it, I stumbled backward until I hit the wall.
I remember fumbling for my radio, pressing the call button
over and over, even though it was just static.
The flashlight flickered, and for half a second I thought I
saw something through the open cell door.
A figure or the shape of 1, standing too still, too straight
in the dark. Then the light went out

(33:24):
completely. I don't know how long I stood
there, maybe seconds, maybe minutes.
My brain just kept repeating those words.
No inmate. It felt like they meant
something I wasn't supposed to understand.
When the flashlight finally cameback on, the cell was empty.
The door was shut tight again, as if it had never been open.

(33:45):
I ran the rest of the way out. I didn't even stop to check the
remaining cells. When I got back to the control
room, one of the officers lookedat me and asked if I was OK.
Said I look like I'd seen a ghost.
I laughed it off. Said the air down there was bad,
maybe I'd gotten light headed. He nodded, but didn't look
convinced. Later that night, when the

(34:05):
sensor logs came through, something strange showed up.
The motion detector that had triggered earlier.
It activated one more time, right around the same minute my
radio stopped working. The system labeled the movement
as human sized, but no footage existed.
The camera feed from that hall had gone black for 12 minutes
straight. I tried to rationalize it

(34:27):
afterward. Maybe carbon monoxide leak?
Maybe stress hallucination. Maybe sleep deprivation?
I even checked the maintenance records.
The old solitary cells had warped hinges, which could have
made that door look like it moved when it hadn't.
But the voice, I can't explain that part.
It wasn't my own, it wasn't a thought.

(34:48):
It had weight, it had sound, it knew I was there, and it didn't
sound like it wanted me to leave.
Story 6. Some buildings don't forget what
they were built for. You can strip the paint, replace
the locks, even empty the cells.But the walls, remember, they
hold on to every sound, every shout, every last breath that

(35:10):
ever echoed through them. That's what I came to believe
after my time at Hensley Correctional.
I've been a corrections officer for almost 10 years.
When they assigned me to Echo Block, it wasn't the official
name. It was D Wing on the log books,
but every guard called it that. The nickname stuck because of
the way sound bounced down the corridor.

(35:30):
You could drop a pen at one end and hear it roll at the other.
Most of the inmates in that section had been transferred out
or released years ago, so it wasmostly used for storage and
overflow when the main units gottoo crowded.
Nights there were dead quiet. Too quiet, really.
I was working the overnight shift that week, 12 hours alone
with nothing but the hum of the emergency lights and the slow

(35:53):
tick of the clock in the controlbooth.
The routine was simple. Make rounds every hour, check
the cells, log any maintenance issues and keep the peace if
anything went wrong. But that block was different.
It didn't need people to make noise.
The building did it on its own. It started small, random creeks
and clanks that any old buildingwould make.

(36:15):
The heating system was ancient, the pipes knocked when the
temperature dropped, and doors sometimes shifted from drafts.
That's what I told myself, anyway.
But around the third night, things started happening that
didn't fit those explanations. During one of my rounds, I heard
a faint metallic click from the far end of the hall.
It sounded like one of the cell doors sliding against its frame.

(36:36):
At first I thought it was just aloose latch.
I walked down shine my flashlight into each cell.
They were all empty, just old bunks, a few cobwebs and
shadows. When I turned to head back, I
heard the click again. This time it was behind me.
I spun around, light sweeping across the block.
The air felt heavier somehow. I checked every door, rattling

(37:00):
each one to make sure it was locked.
All of them were. I didn't log it.
I didn't want to be that guy, the one writing about ghosts in
an official report. But it kept happening.
The next night I was sitting in the booth when the first slam
came. It wasn't subtle.
The whole block shook like something had hit it, a steel on
steel echo that bounced from wall to wall.

(37:21):
I jumped up so fast I nearly spilled my coffee.
The monitors showed nothing, just an empty hallway, still and
dark. I took the keys, went out there
anyway. Walking that corridor after
something like that isn't easy to describe.
The sound lingers long after it stops, like the air is replaying
it on a loop. I walked past each cell slowly,

(37:44):
checking locks, checking hinges.Halfway down the hall, one door
caught my eye. C7.
It was open, just a few inches, but enough to see that the latch
hadn't caught. That door had been locked
earlier, I was sure of it. I closed it, made sure it
clicked into place, and even tugged on it twice, solid.

(38:06):
I turned to leave, and before I could take three steps, it
slammed behind me, hard, the kind of slam that makes your
bones rattle. I stood there staring at it,
flashlight trembling slightly inmy hand.
My first thought was that maybe air pressure did it.
The block had heavy doors closing.
One could make another swing shut.

(38:26):
I went back, opened a few nearbydoors, tested the airflow.
Nothing moved. Not even a whisper of draft.
By the end of the week, I was convinced I was psyching myself
out. You spend too long in silence,
your brain starts filling it with noise.
So I volunteered for one more night shift in the block,
thinking I'd prove to myself it was all mechanical.

(38:48):
That night was colder than the rest.
The lights buzzed faintly, and the whole place smelled faintly
of rust. Around 2:00 AM, during my second
round, I decided to leave one ofthe doors, C7 again half open.
I wanted to see if it would moveon its own.
I marked its position with a strip of masking tape and went
back to the booth. For a while, nothing happened.

(39:10):
I watched the security feed, check my log, drank stale
coffee. Then, without warning, the
monitors flickered, just for a split second.
When they came back, I could seemovement.
Not a person, but the door I'd left open was now shut.
I stared at the time stamp. 241.AMI got up, went straight down

(39:30):
the hall. The door was locked tight.
The strip of tape I'd placed on the hinge side was gone,
completely peeled off. I searched around the floor for
it, but couldn't find it anywhere.
That's when I heard the next slam.
Not from behind me this time, but two cells down C9, then
another C11. It was like something was moving

(39:52):
through the block, door by door,closing them one after the
other. I couldn't see anything, but I
could feel the vibration in the floor Each time one hit.
I stood frozen until it stopped.Then nothing, just stillness
again. I backed away slowly, eyes fixed
on the far end of the quarter. There was no wind, no power

(40:15):
surge. No reason any of those doors
should have moved, but they had.I didn't tell anyone what I saw,
not that night, not afterward. It sounded too much like the
stories that float around prisons after dark, the kind of
stories guards tell to mess withnew recruits.
Still, after that, I couldn't shake the sense that something
in that block didn't like being disturbed.

(40:37):
Maybe it was just old steel settling.
Maybe I imagined half of it, or maybe in a place where so many
men spent years locked away, thedoors learned to close
themselves long after everyone else had gone home.
Either way, I never volunteered for Echo Block again.
Story 7. Some buildings hold temperature
like memories. Warm in some corners, bone deep

(40:58):
cold in others. Like they never forgot the
people who once filled them. That's how it felt working
nights at the penitentiary. The walls sweated in summer, and
in winter they exhaled frost. But there was 1 cell that didn't
care what the season was. It stayed freezing no matter
what. We called it cell 42.
But among the guards, it was better known as the ice box.

(41:21):
I've been a correctional officerfor six years when I got
stationed there. The prison itself was old, built
in the 1930s on an isolated strip of land surrounded by
swamps. Every sound echoed.
The slamming of iron gates, the hollow shuffle of boots, the hum
of the fluorescent lights that never stopped flickering.

(41:41):
There was something unnatural about the quiet that fell after
lockdown. You could hear your own pulse if
you stood still long enough. The first time I noticed the
cold spot, I thought it was a busted vent.
It was during a late shift, about 2:30 in the morning.
The temperature in the corridorsusually stayed around 70° thanks
to the central system, but when I passed by the old solitary

(42:02):
wing, the air changed. It was like walking through a
curtain of ice. I remember stopping mid step
because my breath had fogged. Instantly.
The cell beside me, 42, was closed off, used only for
storage. I figured maybe the air unit
above it had broken, so I made anote to report it and moved on.
A few nights later the same thing happened.

(42:24):
I was walking the same route, same hour, and again when I
reached that section the temperature dropped hard enough
to make my fingers ache. I checked the thermostat on the
wall, it read 69, but inside that one cell the air was so
cold it stung my skin. I aim my flashlight inside,
expecting to see maybe a pipe leak or condensation.

(42:46):
Instead there was just darkness in the faint sound of dripping
water. What got to me wasn't the
temperature, it was the stillness.
Normally old prisons have a constant hum, fans, pipes,
distant rattles. But in that spot, everything
stopped. It felt like the world outside
that cell didn't exist. I mentioned it to my supervisor

(43:07):
during rounds. He shrugged it off.
Said old wings get drafts, especially where the ventilation
system is uneven. Logical enough, except
maintenance. Checked it later that week and
found nothing wrong. No air leaks, no broken ducts,
no exposed metal to cause cold transfer.
They said the system was fine. That night, I decided to test it

(43:29):
myself. I brought a cheap thermometer
from home and hung it on the bars of cell 42 before my shift
started. The rest of the prison sat
steady at 71°. When I came back three hours
later, the reading inside the cell was 45.
Same cell, no vents, no airflow.I remember my hand shaking when

(43:50):
I wrote that down. For a while I just avoided the
place. Nobody like that hallway anyway.
The inmates who used to be housed there swore they heard
whispering at night. One guy said something brushed
his shoulder in his sleep. Another claimed he woke up
unable to breathe, like something heavy sat on his
chest. After enough complaints, the
warden shut the block down. It stayed empty for years, but

(44:13):
when you work in a place like that, you don't get to pick your
Rd. I had to keep walking past 42
like clockwork every two hours. Some nights were fine, quiet,
empty. But on others, the temperature
shift came early, before I even reach the door, I'd feel it
creeping down the hall, like a draft that had a mind of its
own. I started noticing other things

(44:35):
too. The faint clanging of metal from
inside the cell, or the whisper of movement when there shouldn't
be any. One night, I thought I saw
someone in there. It was quick, just a shape near
the back wall. My flashlight caught it for half
a second before the beam flickered.
I stood frozen, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

(44:55):
Nothing. The cell was bare except for a
few boxes of old linens. I told myself it was probably my
reflection bouncing off the metal bars.
That's what I wanted to believe,anyway.
But then came the smell. Cold air doesn't usually have a
scent, but that night it did. It smelled like old iron and
bleach, the kind of sterile, biting odor you find in rooms

(45:18):
that haven't seen sunlight in decades.
My stomach turned. I backed away, but before I
could take more than a few steps, I heard it.
A single hollow breath. Not mine, not echo.
It came from inside the cell. I froze.
Every hair on my arm stood up. My flashlight dimmed again, and

(45:40):
in the weak light I saw what looked like frost forming along
the inside of the bars. Real frost in mid-july.
That was enough for me. I finished my rounds and didn't
mention it to anyone. People already whispered about
that wing being haunted, and I wasn't about to add my name to
that list, but I couldn't stop thinking about it.

(46:00):
The more I ignored it, the more it gnawed at me.
A week later, curiosity got the better of me.
I went back during daylight hours, figuring the sun would
make everything feel less eerie.It didn't.
Even at noon, the temperature dropped.
As soon as I got close, I stepped inside just once.
The floor was cold under my boots.
But the strangest thing was the sound.

(46:21):
It was muffled, like being underwater.
My breath came out white. I counted 5 full seconds before
stepping back. That was enough to convince me
that something about that room wasn't natural.
Years later, when I left that job, I still thought about cell
42. Sometimes in the dead of winter,
when my house got too quiet, I'dremember that moment.

(46:42):
The air turning to ice, the breath that wasn't mine, the
sense of something standing inches away even though I
couldn't see it. Was it a ghost?
Maybe. Or maybe it was something else.
Temperature can play tricks on the body.
Cold air hits your nerves, slowsyour heart rate, makes your
brain misfire. Maybe the frost was

(47:04):
condensation. Maybe the breath was wind
through the pipes, but every time I tell myself that, I
remember the feeling in my bonesthat night, the kind of cold
that doesn't fade even after youstep away.
Some rooms, I think, just never forget who they held.
Story 8. Some buildings have a pulse you
can feel if you stand still longenough.

(47:25):
Joliet Prison was one of those. I thought I'd seen it all.
Fights, riots, smuggling, peoplebreaking down under pressure.
But nothing prepared me for thatnight.
The West Wing was mostly empty by the time I arrived.
They had been moving inmates outfor renovations, leaving blocks
of cells deserted. The air smelled different in the
abandoned sections, like old dust and mildew mixed with faint

(47:49):
traces of something metallic. I told myself it was the
limestone walls, cold and Gray, giving off some weird chemical
smell. But there was something else,
something heavier. The shift started normally.
I was doing a routine walkthrough, checking the locks,
doors, and cameras. The hallway lights flickered

(48:10):
occasionally, which I blamed on old wiring.
The deeper I went into The West Wing, the colder it got.
Not a gradual chill, but a sudden drop that made my breath
fog and my fingers stiffen. I kept telling myself it was
just the HVAC system being old and unreliable.
My boots echoed too loudly on the stone floors, bouncing down

(48:31):
long corridors that stretch farther than I expected.
Every corner I turned seemed darker than it should have been,
and the shadows moved in ways that didn't match my flashlight
beam. The first weird thing happened
near Cellblock. CI noticed the lock on one of
the doors had already clicked shut behind me, though I was
sure I had left it open. Then I heard it.

(48:52):
Footsteps light at first, like someone was pacing.
I froze, convinced the new officer had arrived without
telling me. But the sounds didn't match
mine. They were uneven, hesitant,
almost like someone was trying not to be heard.
I checked every doorway, every cell, but no one was there.
The corridor was empty, and the sound stopped just as suddenly

(49:15):
as it had started. I brushed it off as an old
building settling. Joliet was over a century old,
after all. Limestone walls, shift pipes,
Creek floors settle. That's what I told myself.
But then I reached the laundry area, one of the oldest parts of
the prison, and noticed that theradios and my flashlight started
cutting out static flickers. The battery in my phone, which

(49:39):
had been fully charged, suddenlydropped to 0.
I even tried the wall outlet. Nothing worked.
That part of the prison had no power for years, so I didn't
expect anything, but it felt different, like the equipment
didn't want to function. By the time I reached the far
end of the wing, the sounds became harder to ignore.
Murmurs at first almost like whispers bouncing off the walls.

(50:01):
I couldn't make out words, just tones, low and overlapping.
I slowed down, scanning every shadow.
The limestone walls seem to hum faintly, carrying the sound in a
way that didn't feel natural. My heart was racing.
I had been on night shifts before, alone in all kinds of
creepy situations, but this feltdifferent, heavier, personal.

(50:26):
I kept walking, telling myself that old buildings make noises,
that the wind or drafts can carry sound in strange ways, but
the moment I turned the corner towards cellblock, DI felt it a
presence. I can't describe it logically,
only that it made the hair on myarm stand straight up.
The air grew heavier. My stomach nodded.

(50:48):
It was like someone else was in the hall with me, right at the
edge of my perception, but invisible.
I shine my flashlight slowly along the walls.
That's when I saw it. A figure standing at the end of
the corridor, almost perfectly still.
At first I thought it was a maintenance worker or a late
officer, but the shape didn't look right.

(51:09):
The figure was human in shape, but completely dark.
No features, no legs visible, just a torso, arms and a head.
I tried to adjust my flashlight,but the figure didn't reflect
light. It wasn't moving, but I felt
like it was watching me, following my every step.
The hair on my neck stood on end.
I told myself it was a trick of the eyes, a shadow caught at an

(51:32):
angle. I stepped forward and the figure
seemed to lean slightly, almost as if acknowledging me.
Then the whispers returned, louder this time, overlapping
and echoing. They weren't words, just tones
that made the skin crawl. I could feel my pulse in my
throat. I told myself it had to be a
prank, that my imagination was running wild.

(51:56):
I've been working long hours. Maybe I was just stressed.
But then my flashlight flickeredand went out entirely.
Total darkness. And in that darkness, I felt it.
The figure closer now, The air charged, my skin prickling.
I took a cautious step backward,heart hammering.
And that's when I saw the eyes. 2 empty holes where I should

(52:17):
have been. Not glowing, not red, just
nothing. I froze, unable to move, unable
to breathe properly. My mind screamed at me to run,
but my legs wouldn't obey. The only sound I could hear was
my own breath in the faint hum of the building settling, or
maybe not settling. Then, as quickly as it had

(52:37):
appeared, the figure vanished. No shadow, no whisper, nothing.
Just an empty corridor. My flashlight flickered back on,
dim but functional. I didn't wait around to see if
it would return. I bolted, running the length of
the hall, never looking back, mykeys clanging in my hand as I

(52:58):
fumble for the exit. Once I reached the main building
and locked the door behind me, Icollapsed against the wall,
shaking. The next day I went back with a
fellow officer to inspect the wing properly.
We checked every cell, every corner, every hallway.
Nothing. No signs, anyone or anything had
been there. The locks worked fine, the

(53:19):
floors were untouched, and the lights, radio, and phone all
function normally. My colleague laughed it off when
I told him about the dark figureand the whispers.
He suggested it was exhaustion, stress, or the way the light
reflected off the limestone. Maybe he was right.
Maybe I had imagined it all. But there's one detail that

(53:40):
still haunts me. When I went back alone a week
later to check a maintenance report, I noticed faint
impressions on the limestone wall in the exact spot where I'd
seen the figure. 2 round indentations about eye height,
as if someone or something had pressed their face against the
stone. They were subtle, barely
visible, but when I shone my light at an angle, the shadows

(54:03):
revealed them clearly. I never worked The West Wing
alone again. I don't talk about what happened
that night. Some might call it paranoia.
Some might call it fatigue. I just know that when I walk
past that hallway now, I feel that pulse again, like the
building is alive and some presence is still waiting for
anyone who dares to wander down the limestone halls after dark.

(54:26):
Story 9. Some nights in that prison feel
like you're walking through a clock that forgot how to tick.
The halls stretch longer than they should, and the fluorescent
lights hum in a way that makes your skin crawl if you listen
too long. That's how it felt the night I
first noticed something wasn't right.
I had been working there for about 8 months and I thought I'd
seen it all. Drunks, fights, suicide

(54:49):
attempts. But that night was different.
There was a wait in the air, a cold that didn't come from the
air conditioning, like the wallsthemselves were holding their
breath. I was on overtime, assigned to
A1 on one. That's when a prisoner shows
signs of being suicidal and yourjob is to make sure he doesn't
hurt himself. You stay with him, check that

(55:10):
he's breathing every 15 minutes,and your partner walks by about
every half hour to make sure youaren't nodding off.
Most nights it's boring, just staring at the same 4 walls, but
this night the quiet started pressing in.
You could hear the faint creak of pipes, the occasional drip of
water, even the distant hum of the vending machines down the

(55:31):
hall, and it all felt amplified.It was around 2:00 AM when I
finished checking the prisoner. I used my flashlight to sweep
across the cell, confirming he was breathing.
Everything looked normal. I bent over my clipboard to mark
the check and then out of the corner of my eye I noticed
movement. At first I thought it was my

(55:51):
partner doing his rounds early, but I knew he had just passed
through 15 minutes ago, and besides, all the prisoners were
locked in their cells. There shouldn't have been anyone
down there. I turned to look and that's when
I saw him. A figure moving down the housing
unit. He wore a blue uniform unlike
anything I'd ever seen before, complete with a Breton cap,

(56:12):
shiny black leather belt, and a baton in his hand.
The uniform was crisp, old fashioned, and familiar in a way
that made my stomach twist. That wasn't a style our
department used anymore. We wore Gray modern uniforms.
This was something from decades ago.
My brain tried to rationalize it.
Maybe a contractor, Maybe someone dressed for a training

(56:34):
video. But the more I stared, the less
sense it made. The figure walks slowly down the
corridor just beyond the prisoner's cells.
I could see the back of the cap,the shine of the belt buckle
catching the dim light from the ceiling.
Every step he took made a faint scrape against the floor, and
for some reason it sounded muffled, like he wasn't really

(56:54):
touching the ground. My heart was pounding.
I pinched myself hard to make sure I wasn't dreaming.
When I looked again, he was gone, just gone, as if he'd
never been there. The entire unit felt heavier
after that. The silence was different,
charged, like the air itself waswaiting for something.

(57:15):
I kept checking the cells, making sure the prisoner was
still breathing, but I couldn't shake the image of that uniform
figure. Every shadow look like him,
every flicker of the fluorescentlights made me flinch.
My partner came by a few minuteslater and asked how things were.
I told him everything was fine, but my voice sounded flat even

(57:35):
to me. I didn't mention the man in
blue, who would believe it. For the rest of the night I
noticed more strange things. Doors that I was certain had
been locked slightly ajar. Footsteps echoing in hallways
where no one should have been. The hum of the lights
fluctuating just enough to make the shadows dance in impossible
ways. The prisoner remained calm,

(57:57):
breathing steadily, but I couldn't stop scanning the
corridor, expecting that figure to appear again.
My flashlight became an extension of my own nerves.
I moved it slowly, sweeping the walls, the floors, the ceilings,
and every time I thought I caught a glimpse of him, he was
gone. I tried to tell myself it was
stress, a combination of sleep deprivation, the monotony of the

(58:21):
one-on-one, and the way the fluorescent lights flickered.
Maybe my brain was filling in the blanks.
But then came the unmistakable sound of a baton tapping lightly
against the floor, coming from the far end of the unit.
Slow, deliberate, marching in rhythm with nothing alive there.
My pulse quickened and I could feel the sweat on the back of my

(58:41):
neck. I kept telling myself to
rationalize it, to find a scientific explanation, but
every instinct screamed that something was wrong.
I froze, holding my flashlight steady.
The tapping stopped suddenly, and in that pause, the hallway
seemed to stretch longer, like the walls themselves were
leaning in. Then I saw it.

(59:02):
Or rather, I felt it. A presence.
Not moving, not alive, just standing there, watching.
The hair on my arms stood on end.
My eyes darted back and forth, trying to locate the source, and
there it was again, in the corner of the hall.
A shape, blue in the dim light, the outline of a man with a cap

(59:23):
and belt, but no features, Just a form, static, almost like a
shadow that hadn't caught up with the real world yet.
I shook my head, slapped my face, and when I look back,
nothing was there. The hallway was empty.
The tapping had stopped. The air felt lighter, almost
normal, but the image stayed in my mind.

(59:45):
I finished my shift, marking every check on the clipboard,
but I couldn't stop looking overmy shoulder every time I turned
a corner. I half expected him to be there,
silently walking the unit in hisold uniform the next day.
I tried to rationalize it. Maybe a retired guard had
wandered in, Maybe the old security camera footage hadn't

(01:00:05):
caught someone, but there was noevidence of anyone else being in
the unit that night. Every door was locked.
The prisoner was fine. No one reported hearing or
seeing anything. And yet I couldn't forget that
uniform, that presence, that impossible figure walking down
the hall. Story 10 Some nights at the
prison feel like the air is holding its breath.

(01:00:28):
You start noticing things you wouldn't in daylight.
The hum of old wiring, the way fluorescent bulbs flicker like
they're tired of staying awake, and the faint smell of metal
that never really leaves your nose.
The place had its rhythms, and once you'd worked there long
enough, you could tell when something wasn't fitting the
pattern. That night I was covering the

(01:00:48):
medical hallway after dinner, watching the line of inmates
shuffle through to pick up theirmeds.
It was a quiet post, dull but necessary.
The hall connected the main Rotunda to one of the bigger
housing blocks, right next to the segregation unit.
That part of the prison always felt different, even with the
heavy doors closed, the air seemed thicker near SEG.

(01:01:09):
Maybe it was just the layout, the long narrow corridor,
concrete on both sides, but you could feel how sound move
differently there, like it wanted to stick around longer
than it should. Once the Medline wound down and
the inmates cleared out, I leaned against the wall and just
listen to the quiet. The hum from the overhead lights
was steady, and for a while everything seemed normal.

(01:01:31):
Then, faintly, I heard it. A kind of muffled chatter, like
a radio left on somewhere far away.
At first I thought it was my ownradio, but when I lifted it to
my ear, it was silent. Still, the sound kept coming.
It wasn't clear speech, just lowvoices overlapping, almost like
static, forming words that couldn't quite make it out.

(01:01:52):
I walked the length of the hall,trying to track where it was
coming from. Each step made the sound shift
softer in some spots, sharper inothers, until I realized it was
louder near the segregation door.
That made no sense. There was no radio in there and
the inmates were all locked downfor the night.
The only thing on that wall was the old intercom box, one of

(01:02:13):
those outdated speaker units they used to use for
communication before everything got digitized.
It hadn't been used in years, maybe decades.
When I got closer, I could hear the voices clearly coming
through it. Not loud, but constant, just
enough to recognize that it wasn't static.
I remember thinking maybe someone in the control room had

(01:02:33):
accidentally patched a channel through, but the thing didn't
even have power. The indicator light was off.
I leaned in, watching it closely, and that's when the
goosebumps hit, because the intercom wasn't even plugged in.
The cord dangled loose beneath it, the plug resting against the
wall. Dust caked around the outlet.
I remember giving it a light tug, half expecting it to fall

(01:02:56):
apart in my hand, but it was still solidly attached to the
box. There was no battery
compartment, no wiring running behind it, just a metal face
plate, 2 old dials, and that loose cord.
And yet it kept making sound. The low, muffled talking didn't
stop once. It didn't even fluctuate, just
the same rhythm of voices, steady, as if whoever or

(01:03:20):
whatever was on the other side didn't care that nobody was
listening. I stood there for a while, not
sure what to do. I'd seen broken equipment
before. Speakers could hum or click if
they still had residual charge, but this wasn't that.
It was too deliberate. Every few seconds I thought I
could hear a pause, like someonewas taking a breath between

(01:03:41):
words. The longer I stayed, the heavier
the air around me felt. There was a chill creeping up
from the floor, cold enough to feel through my boots.
It's strange what fear does to your mind.
You start trying to find explanations just to stop
yourself from thinking about theone that doesn't make sense.
I thought maybe the sound was leaking from a nearby radio in

(01:04:03):
another unit, or that some wire somewhere was still live and
transmitting interference. I even checked the ceiling
panels, thinking maybe maintenance had rerouted
something without telling us. Nothing.
The building was silent, except for that one intercom that
shouldn't have been working. The strangest part was how it
felt personal, like the sound wasn't just filling the space,

(01:04:25):
it was directed outward toward me.
Every time I leaned in, the chatter seemed to shift pitch
slightly, Not louder, but sharper, almost like it was
adjusting to my presence. It wasn't words anymore.
It was just sound, a pattern, a rhythm that didn't belong to
machines. At some point, I noticed

(01:04:45):
something else. The faintest vibration in the
air right against my cheek, likestanding near a running
generator. But there was nothing.
No machinery, no air vent, no moving air at all.
The hallway was dead still, except for that whispering
static. I remember stepping back, my
flashlight beam sliding along the wall, and for a second the

(01:05:08):
sound stopped completely. Dead silence that was almost
worse than the noise. The sudden emptiness felt alive
in its own way, like the sound had been holding something back
and now it was gone. I waited, frozen, for what felt
like minutes. Then, from the far end of the
hallway, back near the Rotunda, I heard what sounded like a

(01:05:30):
single radio click. Not static, just that quick
mechanical pop. I turned, a light shaking in my
hand, and saw nothing. When I look back at the
intercom, it had started again. The voices were quieter now, but
faster, like a fast forwarded tape.
I couldn't take it anymore. I logged my report, left the

(01:05:51):
hallway and went back to the main station.
I didn't mention what I'd seen or heard right away.
Part of me was afraid someone would think I was making it up,
or worse, that I was losing it. So I kept quiet.
Later that night before end of shift, I went back to check if
it was still going. The sound was gone.

(01:06:11):
The intercom was completely silent.
I bent down again to look at thecord.
It was still unplugged in the exact same place.
No dust had been disturbed. It looked untouched.
Over the next few days, I tried to rationalize it.
Maybe a hidden line was still connected.
Maybe the intercom was picking up frequency bleed from the
radios in the control room. That was the only thing that

(01:06:33):
halfway made sense. Still, I couldn't shake the
feeling that what I'd heard wasn't mechanical.
It felt too human, too intentional.
It never made a sound again, butevery once in a while when I
pass through that hall, I'd catch myself glancing at the
wall where it hung, half expecting to hear that faint,
impossible whispering start up again.

(01:06:53):
And even now, years later, I still can't decide which
possibility is worse, that it really happened, or that maybe
it didn't and I was the only onewho heard it.