He stood on the porch of the old building and finished his cigarette.
It was an incredible place.
Terry had been waiting to see it ever since he'd found the old register at the flea market. Faded handwriting, crumbling pages.
Finger Hollow.
When the Department of Corrections denied it ever existed, he knew he was on to something. All those names. Not even a rumor of the place, on the internet. He didn't usually go for ghoulish shit, but the mystery had him hooked. Here was a killer article just waiting to be written.
Twice he drove out to Alturas, but he couldn't find any leads. He sent off a couple dozen letters and bought classified ads in the small-town newspapers. After he'd given up, the postcard came. Unsigned. Latitude and longitude coordinates, unreadable postmark...
And dammit, here he was!
The timing couldn't have been better. He'd had enough of the City fog, and the freelance market was drying up anyway. He thought he could get used to Atlanta. All of his stuff was in the back of his truck, which was hidden in a thick stand of pines. From the condition of the road, it didn't look likely that the county mounties would be patrolling anytime soon. Out of old habit, Terry made sure they wouldn't even know he was here.
He dug a flashlight out of his knapsack. Tape recorder, extra tapes and batteries, note pads and pens. Water, snacks, a coil of rope, a crowbar. His cell phone, though it didn't work out here. Most important - half a carton of smokes left. He was only going to stay the night, soak up the ambiance... but he was covered, just in case.
He walked up to the door, and hesitated. Finger Hollow Reformatory. He'd found it - he was really here. Silent and menacing, long forgotten. Magic. The ledger he'd found had covered the years 1926 to 1951. A couple hundred names in there. And the prison board said it never even existed. As mysteries went, this was irresistible.
The door was stuck tight. Of course. Thick, heavy wood. He backed off and started walking around the side of the building, in case there was an easier way in. But he was getting in. Oh, yeah. He lit a cigarette as he turned around the back side, seeing a low door in the flashlight beam. He let his hand slide across the thick blocks of stone. Aiming the light up the wall, he looked at the shutters. Massive steel plates, rusted, moldy. But still closed tight. Secured. He grinned at the thought. Imagine being housed here a hundred years ago. Shut up the insane guys in here, and throw away the key.
None of the guys in the ledger had been older than forty. That still didn't make sense to Terry. Did they ship all the young guys here, from all over the state? So why couldn't he find any official record of this place?
The cellar doors were chained shut. Huge fuckin' links, and a lock that looked like it belonged in a museum. The fire marshal would love this, Terry thought. Chained shut from the outside. He got out his crowbar.
After ten minutes, he hadn't made any progress. The lock was dented, and shiny in places, but it was holding. The hinges needed a cutting torch. Okay, he thought, catching his breath. No problem.
"I want in," he said out loud, looking up at the old building.
He backtracked and examined all the shutters. They were out of his reach, but it didn't matter. All were closed tight. On all sides...
Terry ended up back at the front door. Time for another cigarette. He had an axe in the truck. After thinking about it for a minute, he stepped back and gave the door a good kick, right up by the wrought-iron handle -
The door squawked. And moved a little.
He blinked, and looked closer. "Son of a bitch..."
There was no damage where he'd kicked. He pushed on the door. Nothing. Putting his shoulder into it, he forced it back far enough to slip in. The bolt looked okay, and so did the hinges. It made no sense. Maybe he broke the rust, or something, with that kick...?
Magic, he thought again. Finger Hollow welcomes you. C'mon in.
That wasn't funny. He shivered, suddenly. Just visiting. How many guys had been brought through this door? Spending years locked inside...? Decades?
This was the only exit, he told himself. The way out. Thinking that way would keep him sharp. He pushed on the door, and it didn't move. No chance of this fucker closing by itself. Terry let loose with a big relieved sigh and took a drag. He slipped inside.
No furniture. He hadn't expected any. His flashlight panned across a wide staircase, and bare stone walls. The place couldn't have been any more intimidating. Not therapeutic in the least.
It was a fortress. A dungeon. He paused, looking up at countless layers of cobwebs. If there had been any sign... any evidence at all of recent visitors, he wouldn't have the nerve to go further inside. It was a big comfort that no one else had found the place, maybe since the fifties. No funny stuff happening here. Just his overworked imagination -
Then he saw something on the floor. A good half-inch of dust, there, and something underneath...
He walked over and nudged the thing with his shoe. It was white. Familiar. He picked it up.
An empty cigarette pack. Lucky Strikes.
He turned it over. It was old, alright. Different artwork. It had been folded a couple times, rather than crumpled.
Scanning around, there was no other trash laying around. The floor had been clean, all those years ago. Except for this pack. That seemed odd, somehow.
He let it fall, and kept walking.
There were several hallways. All had huge iron doors which opened from the outside. His side. He picked the one furthest on the right, and tried the door. It creaked as he pulled it, making his heart kick into double-time. But it swung right open. He saw a doorstop at its base, and he made damn sure it was going to hold the door open. He slammed it and kicked the walls hard. Dust rained down, but the door stayed put.
Terry jammed his crowbar under it, just to make sure. Then he aimed his flashlight down the hall. There must have been a dozen doors on each side...
Cells. Iron bars over a little window in each door. Heavy iron doors. He had to pull hard to get one open. Empty cell. Not even a cot. No window, either. Just dark-grey stone. Stone ceiling, stone floor.
In its way, it was better than any movie set he'd ever seen.
Sixty cells downstairs...
Sixty more on the second floor.
Terry dug for another cigarette, as he eased down the groaning stairs.
And the cellar was beyond belief.
Twelve more cells. Stone pedestals. Chains. Manacles. Stocks. Racks and angled chairlike slabs, all topped off with thick iron restraints.
Terry looked up at a crossbraced arrangement of bars, trying to imagine why they'd suspend a guy like that, way up there...
He heard... a breeze. Air moving -
No. Whispers.
He flew out of the cell, up the stairs. The door at the top was still chocked open. He stopped long enough to pull his crowbar free. Voices. Definitely. Not as distant now. And they weren't whispering...
It was laughter. Many voices, roaring and howling and snickering. Whoops, hoots, hee-haws.
He ran to the door.
Standing out on the porch, he realized he was shaking. That made him mad...
Obviously there was no one else here. He was imagining things. Fuck.
He smoked a cigarette, then lit a new one off the old.
Eventually, he crept back inside.
There it was again. Crazed, delirious laughter. Broken up with gasps, and squeals, and hopeless wailing.
Okay, he thought grimly, my mind is out to get me. Leave now? He'd put a lot of work into finding this place. What an article he could write...
Go with it. What a weird thought. But he shook his head, and snickered. His own laughter echoed in the foyer... mixing with all the ghost laughter. As if all those guys - the ones who'd been kept here - had much of anything to laugh about.
Honestly, the ideas he got sometimes.
He got it on tape. Walked up and down the halls, smoking like a fiend, holding both the flashlight and the microrecorder out in front of him as he went.
The sound mix changed from place to place - a deep, husky braying that was louder in one cell, and a high-pitched keening in the next. Bearlike chortling here, deranged giggling there.
In the cellar, it was louder. And different. Many voices, laughing barbarically. Ragged, hard-edged. Smutty? No, he thought, trying to get it. Not quite -
Lusty. Like a bunch of maniacs. Horny as hell, way too happy, rampaging. Savage. The insane laughter echoed off the walls.
Terry had never heard anything like it. The voices were so obviously aroused, his own cock woke up. He swept the flashlight beam around him, seeing nothing new...
Then he sniffed. The smell... Smoke. He looked at his cigarette, and sprung it away. Sniffing again - no, that was different.
And now he smelled shit, too. Very faint. Urine, old sweat. Leather, maybe?
He took a few steps. Yeah. That was smoke. He looked at each of the cells -
All of the doors had been closed before. But when he swung the beam around, there was a chamber with the door wide open. Last one on the right.
He thought he saw smoke, over there.
Heart pounding again, Terry crept toward the open cell.
A light flared inside - firelight. A torch. It got brighter. He shrank back...
And heard a guy's voice. Quiet, but clear. Pleading. Tired, almost mechanical, like the guy didn't expect it was gonna do him any good.
"Aw, geez. Don't do it. Not again. I... I'm beggin' ya..."
It came from inside the cell.
I have to look, he thought. Don't want to. But I gotta know. I'm the only one here... but what if.
Couldn't be. Somebody else here. Another guy, in there.
Maybe on that big table he'd seen earlier. Massive iron rings at the corners - for the chains, and shackles...
As he got closer to the door, he saw the torchlight more clearly. He looked at the threshold of the doorway, almost expecting to see... a line to cross, down there. Or something. He had an overpowering anticipation of some big change, right on the other side of the doorway. Right there, waiting. Waiting for him.
Light and smoke, coming from a room he knew damn well was empty. No way he'd missed all these signs before.
So he took a deep breath... and peeked around the edge of the doorframe.
A guy, maybe twenty-five, was shackled down. Naked as a jaybird. Oiled.
Shaved.
He took a drag off the cigarette which hung from his mouth, and let the smoke leak out. He had blond hair. On his head - but only there. Even his crotch had been... shaved. It looked, well, unnatural. And he had a flat-top haircut. Terry had never seen one before, except in movies.
"Please. Gimme a break. I can't take it anymore, you gotta believe me. You gotta... let me go..."
From the doorframe, Terry opened his mouth to respond. But the guy wasn't talking to him. He was staring -
At a white glove. In the air.
It hung there, a few inches from the guy's right arm. And there was another one, behind his head, floating slowly. It held a pack of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes.
A ghost, begging some magic gloves to let him go. Uh-huh. Sure.
Terry cleared his throat. The guy didn't look at him. "Hey..." he said uncertainly.
No response.
He took a step closer. "Hey. You okay?" What a dumb thing to say. Of course he wasn't -
The guy kept staring at the glove, which didn't move. "I won't tell anybody. I swear it. I'll do whatever you want. Just please... pretty please, with sugar on top. No more. Please, no more."
Terry took another step, toward the corner of the cell. He remembered his flashlight, and shined it at the guy's face. "Hello?"
The glove moved! - the one the guy had been talking to. It went and took his cigarette away.
"Naaaaw! Oh, c'mon!" he protested. Then he looked up, toward the door. And his eyes got big. "No! No no no aw shoot, aw please, don't! P-pllleeeeeeeeeeze..."
Terry saw them too. More gloves. Eight or ten of 'em, solid as hands. Floating into the cell. I'm toast, he thought - and as if to confirm it, the door slammed shut. And locked, with an archaic metal-on-metal click.
Definitely toast. Two more gloves came through the barred window in the door. A dozen now, or fourteen. He lost count in his to-the-bone fear. Enough of 'em. Plenty of magic hands -
Then he got it. Figured it out. How stupid could he be? All those voices, laughing. This guy insisting he can't take any more. Oiled, and shaved.
More than enough of 'em to handle... both of us, Terry thought crazily. Both of us. Locked in here -
With a wild surge of hope, he ran to the door and tried it. Solid, immovable. Like the walls. Crowbar, he thought numbly. Chip your way out, right through the wall eventually. And then he remembered that his crowbar was holding the door open, at the top of the cellar stairs.
The poor guy was getting frantic. Iron clinked softly as he thrashed around. Pinned. A black leather pad absorbed the sound when he slammed his head down. And the impact, apparently.
The gloves didn't even pause. They wouldn't, Terry told himself. That's too sick. No way they-
Four of them started tickling his feet.
"Noooooooooo hoooh hoooo hoh haaaaaawwwwlll laaaaaaawww haw haaaaawwwwww...," the guy crowed, head back, writhing.
Ticklish. Of course. He just roared... unwillingly. But passionately.
Gloves started to fondle his knees. Others went for his sides. He made a weird shriek, real low-pitched. And he laughed like a madman.
Terry snuck up to the pedestal, keeping away from the gloves mauling the dude's sensitive feet. If the guy couldn't hear him, maybe...
He reached for the edge of the pad. His fingers went through it, and felt stone. As real as it looked -
With one finger, he tried to poke the guy in the leg. His hand passed right through as if he was a hologram. Then, bracing himself, he tried to touch one of the gloves that massaged the ghost's left foot. Empty air.
The glove kept on tickling. He reached until he felt stone again - the pedestal. As he'd seen it earlier. The walls, the door - still real. He checked the door again anyway. Locked in.
Terry retreated to his corner, and lit a cigarette absently. The guy didn't react. He was too busy... being hysterical. Feverishly hysterical.
And the gloves didn't even pause.
The poor guy got drilled for the better part of an hour. Then the gloves gave him some water... and started back in. Only they went slower. And they played with his meat.
Terry polished off his own water bottle and threw it at the group of molesting hands. It went through them all, through the guy, and bounced off the table, rolling to the far side.
He lit another cigarette, and watched 'em. They made the guy cackle his guts out, while they played with his crotch. Apparently they were in no hurry to get him off...
In his corner, Terry worked his way through another pack of smokes.
The gloves were oiling the guy from tip to tail. It was the fourth time they'd done it. He looked like shit - totally worn out, face soaked with tears and sweat. Glazed eyes. He wasn't even struggling anymore. A dozen white hands kept caressing him, teasing him.
He'd tried to come a dozen times. Two dozen. The gloves didn't let him. They tickled him harder, on his feet or under his arms, until he squirmed in absolute frustration and howled at the stone ceiling, like he'd just heard the most hilarious joke.
Anything Terry found arousing about this torment died off in the first ten minutes. The door was still locked. He couldn't get out, and so he was forced to watch this grueling torture, the poor slob just getting hammered with pleasure.
And he pictured himself in the guy's place. He couldn't help it. He was ticklish. How horrible would it be, to trade places with that fucker? "Not again," the kid had been saying. How many times had he - had they...
Terry imagined what it would feel like. Hours and hours. Time after time -
He lit another smoke, and his hands were shaking.
He had to get out of this cell.
He had no way to get out.
The two thoughts chased each other, round and round.
Terry listened to the ghost's ragged breathing. Watched the gloves rub and stroke and squeeze...
They didn't seem to know Terry was in there - but maybe they did, and his goose was already cooked too. Maybe they just wanted him to get a long look at what they'd be doing to him, next.
They gave their victim some more water. And one of them picked up the Luckies.
Another dragged a match across the side of the pedestal.
He was too far gone to smoke it. Breathing too hard. A hand pushed his jaw up, to hold onto the cig -
A metal clanking sound made Terry jump - but it was the door. Unlocking! Involuntarily, he moaned with relief.
The door opened magically, and the gloves drifted out.
He was right behind them. Walking as quietly as he could, as if that would help -
Then they vanished. Just gone. Poof. Either they disappeared in the darkness... or it more magic.
Behind him, their victim was still breathing hard. Terry thought for a second, then crept back to the open doorway, and inside -
And he felt... heavier. Immediately, something had changed.
The prisoner still looked the same, though. He gulped air for a few more breaths, then took a drag. Coughed it out. But his next pull was slow and deliberate. He looked like he needed it real bad. Then he started to exhale the smoke, raggedly, and opened his eyes. Looking fearfully at the door -
Eyes stopping on Terry.
"What the heck are you doing here?" he said, panic-stricken.
"You mean... Can you see me?" Terry blurted.
"Get out of here! Are you nuts? Go!"
"I... I can't just leave you -"
"Sure you can! Look, they'll get you too if you don't skedaddle! Torture you. All day..." He wriggled miserably.
His struggles kicked Terry into action. He grabbed the chain holding the guy's right ankle down, and started pulling on it. "Yeah. What's your name?"
"Carlsen. Look, pal, save yourself. I'm done for... Where'd you come from? The stocks?" He shivered hard right after he said that. Must be some bad shit there, Terry thought.
The chain was attached with some huge fuckin' rivets. Terry started looking at the shackle - and then something clicked. "Carlsen. With an 'e'? Royce Carlsen?"
The guy nodded weakly. "Roy, to my friends."
"No," Terry said. "No way. You were the last name.. In the register. This book I found. It had the names of... the inmates, here -"
"Prisoners. Shoot. I didn't do anything to deserve this. If my gol-durn car hadn't broken down -"
"But you're in the list."
"They're upstairs. I've been down here ever since... since -"
"They're - What did you say?"
Roy lifted his lead a little, and looked at the ceiling quickly. "You had to hear 'em. This whole place, full of guys getting the business. You gotta go! Now! While you can. Tell the feds. Please!"
Getting the business, Terry thought numbly. Full of guys... The shackle was too much for him. He couldn't get it to open. "Nobody's up there."
They looked at each other.
"This place is full up!" Roy yelled hoarsely. "That's what it sounds like. All of us, and even more gloves -"
"Okay," Terry said, glancing behind him. "Alright. I'm... I'll go, and bring help."
"Lots of help. Now go! Just get away, get help! Please! I can't take much more of this..."
"I know," Terry said, heading for the door. He paused. The curiosity was killing him. "Roy. When were you caught?"
"When?" Roy answered, confused.
"What year was it, when your car broke down? When you were dragged... down here?"
The prisoner gave him a weird look. "What year do you think? The nightmare started this morning."
"What's the year?"
"Well," Roy said slowly, "you know. 1951."
"Nineteen. Fifty-one," Terry muttered. His body stopped cold, because that number was impossible to believe... "Well, sure -"
A clanking sound, from way above them, made both men look up.
"Dang it! Run, right now!"
"Gone," Terry said. He turned and ran -
Right into a pack of gloves.
They caught his arms like they did it every day. Waiting for me, he thought dully. He flopped hard, driven by pure terror. Too late. They got me they got me oh no.
Torchlight, all around him. Along the walls. Light coming from each of the cells - and noise, too. Perverted, frenzied laughter, from every cell...
All except one. Another open door. Last cell on the left, across from Roy's.
Open. For me. Obvious, true, and too horrible to understand. Just for me -
The gloves dragged him toward it.
"No!" Terry screamed. "No! I can't take it! You can't - I'll die! You'll kill me! Not that!"
"Buddy?" Roy yelled. "Hey - aw, no. No!"
He fought for all he was worth, but they got him through the door, pulling hard on his jacket until they got it off.
Stocks, everywhere. All ready for him. Some hanging from the walls, and the ceiling. Such as that heavy slab of wood, there, with chains at the corners. Feet go in there. My feet are going in there. I can swing 'em, side to side, howling and screaming while they - no, fuck no -
In the center of the room, angled stone with padded black leather. Four holes for his wrists - his ankles. Iron manacles, iron locks.
"Nooooo-ooooo!"
They turned him around. He saw Roy - he'd lifted his head, in order to watch - pulling at his shackles. A crowd of gloves was reentering his cell -
And then Terry's door closed. Like magic. The sound of a bolt, scraping as it stuck in the frame.
The gloves tore his shirt off, and sat him down. Pulling his arms out - slowly, prolonging the moment.
Setting his wrists into the manacles.
Iron was swinging down toward his arms.
A glove set the old padlock and snapped it shut. Locked.
Trapped, here -
Terry kept yelling and yelling. The gloves forced his legs out, into their restraints.
Snaps, and a hollow thud as the stock was lowered. Loud clack of the lock -
Gloves pulled his shoes off. His socks.
He flailed for all he was worth... but it was too late.
"Fifty-one," he wailed to himself, watching the gloves close in on his sides, approach his helpless feet. "Ninetee-eeen fifty-one..."
On to part 2, "The Warden's Rebuttal"
13jun01