Chadwick Rye

The Haunting of Cell Block C


The old-timers used to say Blackstone Penitentiary had ghosts. I’d always laughed it off as prison folklore, the kind of stories guards tell rookies to mess with them. But now, as I stand at the entrance to Cell Block C, my flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, I’m not so sure anymore.

My name is Mike Callahan. I’ve been a corrections officer at Blackstone for fifteen years. I’ve seen riots, suicide attempts, and more fights than I can count. But nothing in my experience prepared me for what’s been happening in Cell Block C.

It started about a month ago. Just little things at first – lights flickering, cold spots in the middle of summer, the feeling of being watched when no one was around. We called in the electricians, checked the air conditioning, did a thorough sweep for any inmates trying to pull something. Everything checked out normal.

But it kept getting worse.

The night shift started reporting strange noises – whispers, mostly, sometimes what sounded like muffled screams. Always from empty cells. Always in Cell Block C.

Most of the other guards refuse to work this block now. Can’t say I blame them. But someone has to do it, and tonight, that someone is me.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself, and step into the cellblock.

The silence is oppressive, broken only by the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the occasional cough or snore from a sleeping inmate. Cell Block C houses our long-term residents – lifers, mostly, with a few death row inmates waiting on appeals.

I begin my rounds, my footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. Everything seems normal, quiet. Maybe tonight will be uneventful, I think to myself.

That’s when the whispers start.

At first, it’s so faint I think I’m imagining it. But as I continue down the row of cells, it grows louder. I can’t make out words, just a constant murmur, like a crowd talking in the distance.

But there is no crowd. Every inmate I pass is sound asleep in their bunk.

I reach the end of the row and turn, shining my flashlight back the way I came. The beam flickers, and for a split second, I swear I see something – a shape, a shadow, something that shouldn’t be there.

Then the lights go out completely.

In the sudden darkness, the whispers grow louder, more insistent. I fumble for my radio, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Control, this is Callahan in C Block. We’ve got a power outage. Over.”

Static is my only reply.

And then, clear as day, I hear a voice. Not a whisper this time, but a full, rich baritone, speaking directly into my ear.

“Michael Callahan,” it says. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

I spin around, my flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. But there’s no one there. Just empty air and locked cells.

The emergency lights kick in, bathing the cellblock in an eerie red glow. The whispers fade away, leaving only the sound of my own ragged breathing.

What the hell just happened?


I don’t sleep well that night. The voice haunts my dreams, calling my name over and over. When I wake up, I’m drenched in sweat, my sheets tangled around me like restraints.

I consider calling in sick, but I know I can’t. Whatever’s happening in Cell Block C, I need to face it. I need answers.

At roll call, I pull aside Johnson, one of the older guards who’s been at Blackstone even longer than me.

“Hey, Johnson,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “What do you know about the history of C Block?”

Johnson’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “Just curious. Heard some stories, you know?”

Johnson looks around, then leans in close. “Look, Callahan, some things are better left alone. But if you really want to know… talk to Old Pete in the archives. He knows all the dark secrets of this place.”

I nod my thanks and head down to the basement where the prison archives are kept. Old Pete is there, as always, surrounded by dusty files and ancient ledgers.

“Officer Callahan,” he wheezes as I enter. “What brings you to my humble domain?”

I cut right to the chase. “I need to know about Cell Block C. Its history, any… incidents that might have happened there.”

Pete’s rheumy eyes narrow. “Cell Block C, eh? That’s a dark chapter in Blackstone’s history, that is. You sure you want to know?”

I nod firmly.

Pete sighs, then pulls out a thick, leather-bound book. “Cell Block C was where they used to do the executions, back before they moved to lethal injection. Hangings, mostly, but there was the electric chair too, for a time.”

He flips through the pages, his gnarled finger tracing names and dates. “Over a hundred men met their end there, between 1920 and 1985. Some went quiet, some went screaming. But there was one… one that was different.”

I lean in closer. “Different how?”

“His name was Samuel Blackwood. Convicted of killing six people in some kind of occult ritual. They say when he was on the gallows, he didn’t beg for mercy. He laughed. And he swore that death wouldn’t stop him, that he’d be back to finish what he started.”

A chill runs down my spine. “When was this?”

Pete squints at the page. “August 15th, 1963. Exactly sixty years ago today.”

I stumble back, my mind reeling. August 15th. Today’s date.

“There’s more,” Pete says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They say Blackwood knew things – dark things. That he could speak to the dead, control them even. And there are rumors… rumors that he left something behind in Cell Block C. Something that would let him keep his promise.”

I thank Pete and leave the archives, my head spinning. As I walk back to my post, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stumbled onto something much bigger, much darker than I ever imagined.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear that voice again.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Michael Callahan.”


The day drags on, each minute feeling like an hour. I go through the motions of my job – supervising meals, breaking up a minor scuffle in the yard – but my mind is elsewhere. I can’t stop thinking about Samuel Blackwood, about his ominous promise.

As night falls, I find myself once again standing at the entrance to Cell Block C. The air feels different tonight – heavier, charged with an energy I can’t explain.

I start my rounds, every sense on high alert. The cellblock is quiet, but it’s not a peaceful quiet. It’s the quiet of a held breath, of something waiting to happen.

I’m halfway down the row when the whispers start. They’re louder tonight, more distinct. I strain my ears, trying to make out words.

“…time has come…”
“…the circle must be completed…”
“…Callahan…”

I spin around, my heart pounding. “Who’s there?” I call out, my voice echoing in the empty corridor.

Silence.

Then, one by one, the cell doors begin to open.

I reach for my radio, but before I can call for backup, an invisible force knocks it from my hand. It skitters across the floor, disappearing into the shadows.

The inmates are still in their beds, seemingly asleep. But something is emerging from each cell – hazy, translucent forms that coalesce into human shapes.

Ghosts. There’s no other word for them.

They fill the corridor, their spectral forms glowing faintly in the dim light. Men in old-fashioned prison uniforms, some with ropes around their necks, others with burn marks on their skin.

And at the center of it all, a tall figure in a suit that might have been fashionable in the 1960s.

Samuel Blackwood.

He smiles at me, and it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

“Michael Callahan,” he says, and it’s the voice from last night. “We’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”

I back away, my back hitting the wall. “What… what do you want?”

Blackwood’s smile widens. “Why, to finish what I started, of course. And you, my friend, are going to help me do it.”

The other ghosts move closer, forming a circle around me. I can feel their cold presence, hear their whispered voices growing louder.

“I don’t understand,” I manage to say.

Blackwood reaches out a spectral hand. “You will. You’re the key, Michael. The final piece of the puzzle. With your help, we’ll break the barriers between the world of the living and the dead. And then… then the real fun begins.”

As his hand touches my chest, a jolt of icy energy courses through me. I try to scream, but no sound comes out.

The world goes dark, and I feel myself falling, falling into an abyss of whispers and shadows.


I wake up in the prison infirmary, the harsh fluorescent lights burning my eyes. Dr. Patel, the night shift physician, is leaning over me, concern etched on his face.

“Officer Callahan? Can you hear me?”

I try to speak, but my throat feels raw. I manage a weak nod.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Dr. Patel says. “Officer Johnson found you unconscious in Cell Block C. Do you remember what happened?”

The memories come flooding back – the ghosts, Blackwood, the cold touch that felt like it was sucking the life out of me. But I can’t tell them that. They’d think I was crazy.

“I… I’m not sure,” I croak. “Must have slipped and hit my head.”

Dr. Patel doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “Well, you seem to be okay physically. But I want to keep you here for observation, just to be safe.”

I spend the rest of the night in the infirmary, unable to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Blackwood’s face, hear his chilling words.

“You’re the key, Michael.”

What did he mean? And why me?

As dawn breaks, I check myself out of the infirmary against Dr. Patel’s advice. I need answers, and I know I won’t find them lying in a hospital bed.

I head straight for the archives. Old Pete is there, as always, but he looks up in surprise when I enter.

“Officer Callahan? Heard you had a bit of an accident last night.”

I wave off his concern. “I’m fine. Pete, I need to know more about Samuel Blackwood. Everything you’ve got.”

Pete’s eyes narrow. “You saw something, didn’t you? In C Block?”

I hesitate, then nod. No point in lying to Pete. He’s seen too much in his years here to be easily fooled.

Pete sighs heavily. “I was afraid of this. Sit down, son. This is going to take a while.”

Over the next hour, Pete tells me a story that chills me to the bone. Samuel Blackwood wasn’t just a murderer – he was a practitioner of dark magic, obsessed with breaking down the barriers between life and death.

“The murders he was convicted of? They weren’t random,” Pete explains. “They were part of a ritual. Blackwood believed that by sacrificing six souls, he could create a… a doorway, of sorts. A way for the dead to return to our world.”

“But he was caught before he could complete the ritual,” I say, beginning to understand.

Pete nods. “Exactly. He had killed five when they finally caught him. The sixth sacrifice was never made.”

A cold feeling settles in my stomach. “And now he wants to finish it. But why me? Why am I the key?”

Pete pulls out an old photograph, yellowed with age. It shows a group of prison guards from the 1960s. He points to one of them, a young man with a familiar face.

“That’s my grandfather,” I say, recognizing him from old family photos.

“Michael Callahan Sr.,” Pete confirms. “He was one of the guards on duty the night Blackwood was executed. And he was the one who pulled the lever that opened the trapdoor on the gallows.”

The pieces start to fall into place. “So Blackwood wants revenge? Is that it?”

Pete shakes his head. “It’s more than that. In his twisted logic, Blackwood sees your grandfather as the one who interrupted his ritual. And now, he believes that using you – the grandson of the man who killed him – as the final sacrifice will make his ritual even more powerful.”

I sit back, my mind reeling. It’s insane, all of it. But after what I saw last night, I can’t dismiss it.

“What do I do, Pete? How do I stop this?”

Pete reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a small, leather-bound book. “This was your grandfather’s journal. He wrote down everything he knew about Blackwood, including some protective measures against his magic. It’s not much, but it might help.”

I take the journal, feeling its weight in my hands. “Thank you, Pete. For everything.”

As I turn to leave, Pete calls out, “Be careful, Callahan. Blackwood’s had sixty years to plan this. He won’t give up easily.”

I nod grimly. “Neither will I.”


I spend the day poring over my grandfather’s journal, trying to make sense of his notes on protective symbols and incantations. It all seems so far-fetched, like something out of a bad horror movie. But after what I’ve seen, I’m willing to try anything.

As night falls, I prepare to return to Cell Block C. I’ve drawn some of the protective symbols on my skin with a marker, feeling slightly ridiculous but also desperate for any edge I can get.

Johnson catches me as I’m about to start my shift. “Callahan, you sure you’re up for this? After last night…”

I force a smile. “I’m fine, Johnson. Just a little bump on the head. Nothing to worry about.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets me go. As I walk towards Cell Block C, I can feel the weight of his concerned gaze on my back.

The cellblock is quiet when I enter, but I can feel the tension in the air. The inmates seem restless, tossing and turning in their bunks. I begin my rounds, every sense on high alert.

For the first hour, nothing happens. Then, as the clock strikes midnight, the temperature plummets. My breath comes out in visible puffs, and I can see frost forming on the cell bars.

The whispers start, louder than ever before. And then, one by one, the ghosts appear.

They form a circle around me, just like last night. But this time, I’m ready. I pull out my grandfather’s journal and begin to recite one of the incantations.

“By the light of the living, by the power of the just, I command you to depart…”

The ghosts waver, their forms becoming less distinct. For a moment, I think it’s working.

Then Blackwood appears, and everything goes to hell.

With a wave of his hand, he sends the journal flying from my grasp. It hits the wall and falls to the floor, pages scattering.

“Did you really think it would be that easy, Michael?” he sneers. “Your grandfather’s parlor tricks are no match for sixty years of accumulated power.”

He gestures again, and invisible forces lift me off my feet, pinning me against the wall. I struggle, but it’s like fighting against steel bands.

Blackwood approaches, his eyes glowing with an unholy light. “It’s time, Michael. Time to complete what I started all those years ago. With your sacrifice, the doorway will open, and the dead will walk among the living once more.”

He reaches out, his hand glowing with dark energy. I close my eyes, bracing for the end.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, I hear a familiar voice. “That’s enough, Samuel.”

I open my eyes to see another ghost standing between me and Blackwood. It takes me a moment to recognize him from the old photograph.

My grandfather.

“Michael Callahan,” Blackwood snarls. “Come to save your grandson? How touching. But you’re too late. The ritual has already begun.”

My grandfather stands firm. “It’s over, Samuel. It was over sixty years ago, and it’s over now. Let it go.”

Blackwood laughs, a sound that sends chills down my spine. “Let it go? I’ve waited sixty years for this moment. I won’t be denied now!”

He lunges forward, dark energy crackling around him. But my grandfather is ready. He meets Blackwood’s charge, and the two spectral forms collide in a explosion of light and shadow.

I fall to the ground, the invisible bonds holding me suddenly gone. Around me, the other ghosts watch the battle, their whispers rising to a fever pitch.

My grandfather and Blackwood grapple, their forms shifting and changing as they fight. Light against dark, good against evil, locked in a struggle that seems to bend the very fabric of reality.

I scramble for my grandfather’s journal, flipping through the pages frantically. There has to be something here, some way to help, to end this once and for all.

My eyes land on a page near the back, one I hadn’t noticed before. The writing is different here, not my grandfather’s neat script but something hurried, almost desperate.

“In case of failure,” it reads, “the final safeguard. A last resort.”

What follows is an incantation, longer and more complex than the others. A warning accompanies it: “Use only in direst need. The cost is high.”

I look up at the battle raging before me. My grandfather is holding his own, but Blackwood’s power is immense. The air crackles with supernatural energy, and I can feel the veil between worlds thinning.

This is direst need if ever there was one.

Taking a deep breath, I begin to recite the incantation. The words feel strange on my tongue, ancient and powerful. As I speak, the temperature in the cellblock drops even further. Frost creeps across the floors and walls, and my breath comes out in thick clouds.

Blackwood turns towards me, his eyes wide with recognition and… is that fear?

“No!” he roars. “Stop him!”

The other ghosts move towards me, but my grandfather intercepts them, holding them back.

“Finish it, Michael!” he shouts. “Don’t stop, no matter what!”

I continue the incantation, my voice growing stronger with each word. The journal in my hands begins to glow, first faintly, then with increasing brightness.

Blackwood breaks away from my grandfather and lunges towards me, his face contorted with rage and desperation. But before he can reach me, a blinding light erupts from the journal.

For a moment, everything is white. I can’t see, can’t hear anything but the pounding of my own heart and the final words of the incantation echoing in my mind.

Then, slowly, the light fades.

The cellblock is empty. No ghosts, no Blackwood, no supernatural frost or whispers. Just me, the journal, and the confused faces of inmates peering out from their cells, awakened by the commotion.

I slump against the wall, exhausted beyond belief. Whatever that incantation did, it worked. The oppressive feeling that had hung over Cell Block C for so long is gone, replaced by an almost peaceful quiet.

But as the adrenaline fades, I become aware of a burning sensation on my chest. Pulling down my collar, I see a mark there, like a brand. It’s the same symbol that was on the last page of the journal.

The cost, I realize. This is what the warning meant.

Before I can contemplate this further, I hear footsteps approaching. Johnson rounds the corner, his face a mix of concern and confusion.

“Callahan? What the hell happened here? We got reports of lights and noises…”

I look up at him, then around at the now-ordinary cellblock. How can I possibly explain what just occurred?

“It’s over, Johnson,” I say finally. “It’s all over.”

He gives me a long look, then nods slowly. “Alright. But the warden’s gonna want a full report. You up for that?”

I nod, pulling myself to my feet. As we walk out of Cell Block C, I can’t help but look back. For a moment, just a moment, I think I see my grandfather standing there, a proud smile on his face. Then he’s gone, fading away like mist in the morning sun.

The next few days are a blur of debriefings and questions. I tell them a sanitized version of events – a power malfunction, some unexplained phenomena that have now ceased. They don’t believe me, not entirely, but they have no evidence to contradict my story.

The mark on my chest remains, a constant reminder of what transpired. Sometimes it aches, especially at night. And sometimes, in my dreams, I hear whispers – not the malevolent ones from before, but softer, almost comforting. My grandfather’s voice, telling me that I did well, that the barrier between worlds is secure once more.

I stay on at Blackstone. Someone needs to keep watch, just in case. The other guards still avoid Cell Block C when they can, but I volunteer for every shift there. It’s quiet now, peaceful even.

But I keep my grandfather’s journal close, and I stay alert. Because I know now that there are things in this world – and beyond it – that defy explanation. Things that most people will never see or understand.

And sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, when the old prison creaks and settles, I stand in Cell Block C and whisper a quiet thank you to my grandfather, and to all those who came before, who stood guard against the darkness.

Because I know now that’s what I am – a guard, not just of prisoners, but of the very boundaries of our world. It’s a heavy responsibility, but one I bear willingly.

After all, someone has to keep the ghosts at bay.

Years have passed since that fateful night in Cell Block C. Blackstone Penitentiary has changed – modernized in some ways, but still carrying the weight of its history. I’ve changed too. The dark hair at my temples has turned grey, and the lines on my face have deepened. But the mark on my chest remains, a constant reminder of the night I faced the impossible.

I’m the senior guard now, respected and a little feared by the younger officers. They’ve heard rumors, of course. In a place like this, stories have a way of growing, twisting into legend. Some of them are even true.

Tonight, as I make my final rounds before retirement, I find myself once again in Cell Block C. It’s quiet, as it has been since that night. But there’s a feeling in the air, a sense of… anticipation.

As I reach the end of the corridor, I see him. My grandfather, looking just as he did in that old photograph. He smiles at me, and for a moment, I’m transported back to that night, to the battle that saved not just Blackstone, but perhaps the world.

“You’ve done well, Michael,” he says, his voice echoing softly in the empty cellblock.

“Is it over?” I ask. “Truly over?”

He shakes his head slowly. “It’s never truly over. There will always be those who seek to breach the barriers, to unleash forces they don’t understand. But for now, this place is safe. Thanks to you.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words. “And after I’m gone?”

“Another will take your place,” he says. “The watch is eternal, passed down through generations. Just as I passed it to you, so too will you pass it on.”

As if on cue, I hear footsteps approaching. A young guard – Jenkins, I think his name is – rounds the corner. He stops short when he sees me.

“Sorry, sir,” he stammers. “I didn’t know you were down here.”

I look back to where my grandfather was standing, but he’s gone. Turning back to Jenkins, I see something in his eyes – a spark of curiosity, of awareness. The same spark I must have had all those years ago.

“It’s alright, Jenkins,” I say. “In fact, I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I need to show you.”

As I lead him down the corridor, I can feel the weight of my grandfather’s journal in my pocket. It’s time, I realize. Time to pass on the watch, to share the burden and the responsibility.

Because the ghosts may be quiet for now, but they’re never truly gone. And Blackstone will always need a guardian, someone to stand watch in the night, to keep the darkness at bay.

As I begin to tell Jenkins the true history of Cell Block C, I see understanding dawn in his eyes. And I know that even as I leave Blackstone, a part of me will always remain here, standing guard alongside all those who came before and all those yet to come.

The watch continues. The ghosts are held at bay. And in the heart of Blackstone Penitentiary, in the quiet corridors of Cell Block C, the eternal vigil goes on.