"Cell 203" by Joel Austin

Cell 203

by Joel Austin

I didn’t mean to wind up with the reputation that I did, although it’s not like anyone in prison has a great rep to begin with. I just didn’t think I’d be the one sitting alone in the cafeteria as every other inmate avoids me like I’ve got a face full of explosive syphilis boils. My celly disappeared. I didn’t do anything to him, okay? And not like in the “I swear your honor, I’m innocent,” that most of us claimed at our arraignments, but in the I swear to fucking God I did not make that guy disappear.

It was the puddle.

Okay, okay, okay. I know, I’m “Crazy Samuel, the canine cadaver collector.” But it's not like I killed the dogs. I just exhumed their remains. Like Marge Simpson and potatoes, I just think they’re neat. As you’re all well aware, gravedigging in Sedgwick County is illegal, and when coupled with an animal cruelty charge, I landed an eight-year vacation. But I’ve been on my meds, doing my therapy sessions, and even started attending the bible study to become a more spiritual person. All of that is to say, you can believe me when I tell you, I don’t know what is happening.

The beginning? That’s a great place to start. Monday, my new celly, Calvin, moved in. We played pinochle after he got set up, and I lent him a soup—a hot commodity in the big house. He was in for grand theft, but apparently the cops didn’t find all of his cash, so his lady would be putting plenty of dough on his books. I hook him up, and he’d make sure our cell was stocked ASAP. Cal also said his girl would send some dirty pics for us to look at, too, which I thought was odd, but I don’t like to judge, so I didn’t say anything. 

That night there was a huge storm. Lightning so bright I thought the guards were coming in for a random search. The thunder that followed sounded like a plane full of bombs was being dumped right outside. For the first time in my short stay, I was thrilled to be in a cement room. That feeling didn’t last. 

Cal was fast asleep. I couldn’t believe the oaf could withstand the barrage on our senses, but the man was out. I called out to him in a stage whisper, but obviously my voice wasn’t going to compete with the claps of weather on the other side of our small window. Not sure if we were going to have to evacuate, I decided to hop down and wake the guy up. Just as my feet hit the ground, I noticed a stream of liquid dripping steadily from the light fixture. 

A small pool had gathered in the center of the floor, a perfect circle of water expanding as the rain raged on. I reached forward to splash it toward the drain, not wanting a cesspool to develop in my living space, and as my fingers drew near, it lit up!

I looked into an endlessly deep ocean. A kaleidoscope of pink, purple, black, and blinding white fractals stared back. I felt my eyes widen and my entire body grow tense as two translucent salmon-shaded tentacles extended from somewhere in the void and reached toward me. I leapt back. Full disclosure, I felt a hot stream of piss running down my leg, and I didn’t care—it’s not every day a portal to another dimension shows up next to your bed.  The feelers began to desublimate as they crossed the threshold, their now solid masses groping for anything they could touch.

I scurried to my top bunk, hoping there was a limit to their reach. Like snakes, they slithered along the ground until they reached Calvin’s bed. I was frozen in fear, my voice box momentarily broken as I watched, filled with both fascination and dread. 

The meaty arms lifted Calvin with such ease he looked like a toy doll, his weightless body hanging limply while they pulled him steadily into the water. A sound like ice hitting a hot pan filled our cell, and the purple and pink light grew brighter until Cal and the tentacles were gone; a few drops of glowing water were all that remained on the ground.

That was one week ago. The guards combed the entire unit with a fine-tooth comb and couldn’t find a trace of Calvin. He’s the first inmate to escape this prison that we've ever seen. 

Until tonight.

The voices have been growing stronger, more persistent. “Come to us, Sammy,” they say, “come on in, the water's fine.” Then, in Cal’s voice, “Come on, Sam, you’ll love it down here, I’ve got all the noodles you can eat.” 

The puddle forms every night, and the voices become relentless. I stand guard instead of sleeping, and no one will help. No one will even look me in the eye. They think I ate him! 

I think I’m ready to follow Cal.

Cal’s girl, Brooke, did send him a letter, and yesterday it wound up with my mail by mistake. As promised, there were three photos, each more revealing than the last. I’d never cared about this kind of stuff; I was always too busy wondering what the inside of a dog looked like to care about women—or anything really, but I figure Cal might still want them.

The end.