Fouler Things

Cell 23a.

He had to know. What was in there. This ancient prison was not in any database he'd heard of before. It was not in any book he'd read before. This place did not exist. Yet it was obviously, very, very ancient. The walls were of a hewn stone that no one had built with in ages. The doors were made of old growth forest of the sort that had not existed here on the East Coast for centuries.

If this were a more modern prison, built recently, he'd say this was a black site: the government had people here it did not want the world to see or know it had. Yet, this place had never been acknowledged. It was in no books. It was on no maps. Yet...here it was.

It was a hole. A hole that someone threw away the hole for. Never mind the key.

And now he was a guard here. A perhaps too curious guard.

He didn't recognize the faces and the faces seemed to be even more terrified of him than he could even remotely warrant. He'd done nothing. He saw NONE of the guards do anything. Yet, if he moved quickly at all, the prisoners cowered.

Strange. beyond strange.

He'd have just left it at that if not for the mystery of the place. It didn't exist. The guards never did anything wrong or untoward. The prisoners seemed cowed and passive. Beyond strange.

When he started asking questions, he was reassigned as a clerk. There he stayed for a week or two. Paperwork. Nothing with straight names. Just numbers. Dates. And infractions. And movements within the prison.

He watched. He read. He learned.

The more he learned. The less he knew.

The more he became perplexed, frustrated and then intrigued.

There was a mystery within the mystery.

Cell 23a.

He'd found old records that had been lost, but brought to him. The same prisoner number. The same prison cell. Just with an older date. Much older. 200 years old older. And he thought that wasn't the original.

He had to know.

He went down. He went to the door with the ancient master key. Iron, inscribed and corroded. It couldn't have possibly opened a thing. And yet, it did.

The door creaked open. It had been ages since it'd moved. Inside was pitch black. He turned on his flash light...and it was a hall! Deep and dark and pregnant with malevolence. He went in. And...

At the end of the wall there was another door. This had no lock, so he opened it again.

Within was a room, black and pitiless in its foulness. He knew he needed to run. He knew it would not happen. An evil, yet charming voice wafted from the blackness.

"So, it is time again. I had been growing so restless. I shall have to outdo myself."

The guard wanted to speak up, to say something, to run! Yet could do nothing. He could say nothing.

An immaculate, nearly perfect man walked from the dark and into the light of his flashlight.

"Well, better than that short stupid German in Bavaria. Or the awful Georgian in Siberia. The stench of having sought to be a priest never left him, even if he was evil. Yes, I suppose you will do. Based on your clothes, American. Its been a long time since I had my way with America. You don't seem to be a leader though. More the pity. Old Hickory was a favorite of mine, but I only got a piece of him. No matter. Leaders can be made.

"This will hurt. I won't say I am sorry, but I am going to give you fair warning. A prison guard. Not a prisoner. Miskatonic Prison! Oh my. Be glad you found the Devil. There are fouler things in this prison than I."