Cell 13

Cell 13

Josh looked up from beneath the top bunk at the flickering light as a sudden chill swept through the cell.

“Huh. That’s strange,” Josh was thinking, “They keep the jail cold because it is supposed to keep the germs down, but this isn’t a normal chill.”

The damp cold air seemed to move through him rather than around him as Josh pulled the blanket tighter and tried to go back to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t cooperate.

He was anxiously hoping, “Well, I’ll only be in here for a couple of days, but come on, two days in jail because I can’t pay a traffic ticket? That seems a little excessive and something that they might do back in the 1800s,” and his thoughts drifted back to that morning.

Josh had pulled up in front of the courthouse intending to talk to the judge before the ticket went to warrant. A motorcycle cop had cited him for running a red light on Pico, but there had been a huge semi in front of him and he hadn’t seen the light change.

He didn’t have five hundred dollars to pay the ticket and  also didn’t want to ignore it, because getting pulled over later, he would wind up in jail. “Oh wait,” he thought, “wind up? Am I not sitting in jail right now? Oh my God, what a screwed up system.” He had done what he thought was the responsible thing.

After the usual waiting, his name was called, so he nervously stood up and walked to the front. The judge was a pretty good looking woman and she looked down at him asking, “What happened?”

“Well, your honor, there was a semi in front of me, and I couldn’t see the light.” Josh stated.

“Could you see the light on the other side of the street?” the judge asked.

Josh stared at her, “Light? What light, Your Honor?”

“The light on the other side of the street.” The judge responded

“Oh, that light.” Josh knew exactly what she meant after she pointed it out, and continued, “Nobody usually looks at those lights, at least I never do, Your Honor. I was focusing on the giant truck in front of me and the pedestrians because it's pretty busy down on Pico Boulevard.”

The judge’s expression hardened. “So you didn’t see it?”

“No, I guess I didn’t, Your Honor,” Josh admitted.

The judge stated, “I find you guilty of whatever section of the vehicle code that applies. Can you pay the full amount today?”

Josh replied sheepishly, “No, Your Honor. I ’m out of work and I don’t have anyway to pay it.” Josh could've paid it, but he had weed to buy that night.

Something changed in the judge’s face and Josh could just make out what looked almost like a sneer.

A bailiff moved behind him and Josh glanced over his shoulder thinking, “Why is this bailiff moving in behind me?”

Then he got his answer. “You are remanded into the custody of the Los Angeles County Jail for no less than 48 hours!” the judge said loudly, then banged her gavel and turned away as the bailiff put a hand on Josh’s shoulder.

“What about a payment plan?” Josh protested as he was led away. “Can I make payments? Do I have to go to jail?”

The judge didn’t look at him and stated, “Next case.”

Josh kept looking around protesting as the bailiff handcuffed him, then led him out of the courtroom to begin his processing. As they took his fingerprints and shot his photo, Josh was still trying to make sense of it.

“Crap. Can they really put me in jail because I can’t pay a traffic ticket?” Josh whined, “Aholes, really?”

Apparently they could and the officer stopped beside a pay phone on his way to the next step in his unintended field trip. “You get one call,” the officer said, looking bored.

Josh called his roommate Fred collect, whose car he had borrowed to drive to the courthouse, Fred answered, “Yes, I'll accept the call!” He responded in his heavy European accent, “What's up loser?” he asked.

“Hey Fred, I’ve got some bad news,” Josh replied, “The judge sentenced me to two days in jail and your car is parked on the street in front of the courthouse, so you have to come down here and pick it up.

Fred replied, “What a loser.”

Josh said back, “Yeah, thanks, Buddy, I appreciate that! Hey, I am really sorry I didn't think I would go to jail. If my mom calls, under no circumstances tell her I’m in jail, because it’ll freak her out so just tell her I’m not there.”

Fred was pissed off, but said, “Yes, loser, I will come and get the car. You Americans are so weak and worthless! What a bunch of losers!” He finished his statement and hung up the phone.

Josh went through the shuffling process which got him through and after being fingerprinted getting his mugshot taken  and a visit to the nurse, he somehow ended up alone in a dark cell buried somewhere inside the Los Angeles County Jail. He didn’t know why he had been separated from the general population, but after seeing some of the other inmates, he wasn’t complaining.

The nurse who examined him had looked strange, with black hair, a pale face, and on the back of her hand, a small upside-down pentagram tattoo.

Josh had looked at it twice, wondering, “What the hell is that all about?”

The nurse had been looking strangely at him, making Josh feel like she was observing him and not in a normal way.

Now, lying alone in the darkness and remembering the tattoo, saw the light flicker. Josh pulled the blanket up around him tight and closed his eyes.

* * *

Morning arrived without sunlight; the jail was illuminated by the poor old fluorescent lighting that ran through the building. Hearing the breakfast cart wheeling through the hallway, he waited and soon the jailer slid breakfast through the slot in the door.

Josh sat up, pulled the tray inside, and stared at it. “Green eggs and this. These are the smallest portion of something, are these hash browns?” he thought to himself. “I guess Dr. Seuss was right there is such a thing as green eggs, but there is no ham.”

Then he picked up the juice. “Oh, man. This is the smallest container of juice I’ve ever seen in my life,” he thought to himself, but he was starving, so he ate the eggs and whatever the mystery food was, tore open the juice, and swallowed it in one gulp.

“That’s it?” Josh continued thinking,  “Ahh, I will fill the container from the sink a couple of times.” He did, then drank the water, lay back down, and fell asleep.

The dreams came quickly, and Josh found himself standing in an open field beneath a black sky with several figures in black cloaks around him.

“$%#@” Josh said in dreamworld, “WTF? The hooded figures had their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. And they were speaking to one another in a language Josh had never heard before. Then they all turned toward him and Josh saw the red eyes glowing beneath their hoods.

A fear rose inside Josh that was deeper than anything he had ever felt in his life. “This is only a dream,” he told himself. “They’re not real.”

Each figure raised what looked like a wand as fire erupted around him and then Josh tried to run but he couldn’t move. His legs were frozen in place.

He dropped to his knees and saw a rock inside the burning flames.

“Wake up!” he shouted to himself,  slamming  his head against the rock. Nothing happened. Again, he shouted and nothing, then the third time—Josh’s eyes flew open, he was back in Cell 13. 

It was freezing.

Not jail-cell cold, but Arctic cold, and Josh could see his breath coming out like a fog machine.

Clutching the blanket tightly against him, Josh stared into the darkness, “What time is it and how long did I sleep?” he thought to himself.

Looking toward the door, Josh saw in the dim light, his lunch tray still sitting there untouched and on top of it, his dinner.

Josh stopped breathing for a moment thinking, “I slept through the entire day?"

Then the lights blinked. Once, twice, and Josh screamed inside, “What is going on?” Then Josh realized he couldn't move.

For the first time in years, Josh began praying, “God, please protect me. I don’t know what’s going on. Please protect me. I’m sorry for anything wrong that I’ve ever done. Just give me another chance and I’ll try to be a better person.”

Josh had never thought of himself as a bad person, although he’d made stupid mistakes, plenty of them, but they only seemed to hurt him, so he continued,

“Please, God. Give me another chance. I’ll join a charity. I’ll become a priest. Anything you want.”

Something moved above him and Josh went silent.

Two red eyes were looking down from the upper bunk.

Josh jerked the blanket over his head.

“Don’t be stupid,” he whispered. “You’re in jail. There’s nobody in here with you. The cell is empty.”

The blanket covered his entire body now and he could still feel something above him.

Watching.

Josh prayed again, using an old prayer a friend had taught him years before, “Lord Michael before, Lord Michael behind, Lord Michael to the right, Lord Michael to the left, Lord Michael above, Lord Michael below, Lord Michael, Lord Michael, wherever I go, I am his love protecting. I am his love protecting. I am his love protecting.”

Eventually, exhaustion overcame the terror, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Josh never woke up.

* * *

“Jesus, another one?” Detective Carl Fueller stood in the doorway of Cell 13, staring at the covered body.

His partner, Detective Frank Miller, shook his head. “Damn Carl, I wish they’d put cameras in here, like I keep asking them to, and I don’t understand why they haven’t.”

Detective Fueller looked at him. “What’s this one’s name? Josh Simmons? That makes four total.”

“Four,” Miller repeated, “and every one of them on Halloween night.”

“Who found him?” Fueller asked.

“Deputy Gonzalez,” came the reply from Frank, “he came in because Simmons hadn’t touched his lunch or dinner,” Miller said, pulling back the coroner’s blanket.

Fueller grimaced. “Christ, Frank, just like the others. Oh, damn, oh, and it stinks. Yep fear will, well fear has a horrible smell.”

Josh Simmons’s corpse was staring upward, eyes wide open, his face frozen in terror and his mouth was stretched, as though he had died trying to scream. Both hands were raised, palms outward, as if he had been desperately trying to push something away.

“No one heard anything?” Fueller asked.

“Nothing,” Miller replied, covering the body again, probably the same cause of death as the others. Heart failure.”

The coroner appeared at the doorway. “You guys done?”

Miller nodded. “Yeah, we’re done.”

Two attendants came in, lifted Josh onto a stretcher, and wheeled him away.

As they disappeared around the corner, Miller noticed someone standing at the far end of the corridor. It looked like the jail nurse and she was watching them.

Miller blinked and she was gone. “That’s weird.”

“What is?” Fueller asked.

“I thought I saw the nurse,” Miller said.

“The jail nurse?” Fueller responded.

“Yeah,” Miller continued, “She was standing down there and then she just…vanished.”

Fueller gave him a look. “Yeah, Sally Constantine, there’s a weird one and I’ve heard some stories about her, that she is into some kind of dark magic or something.” Then he started down the corridor.

“Come on, Frank, let’s get some breakfast, I’m hungry.”

* * *

November first was cold and rainy in Los Angeles as the detectives climbed into their car.

“Denny’s?” Miller asked.

“Yeah. Denny’s sounds good, Larry.” Fueller replied with a cough.

Miller pulled away from the curb, and at the first red light, he looked over at his partner. “Hey, Carl. Do you think this has anything to do with the Kincaid kid?”

Fueller turned toward him, “What?”

“The kid who was in that cell five years ago. I wasn’t here, but you were, and wasn’t he falsely accused of killing somebody?”

Fueller’s expression changed, “Yeah. I remember the kid. My old partner and I picked up the wrong guy. He fit the description and the license plate was close, but we got the wrong guy.”

Miller looked at his partner, “Didn’t he kill himself in that cell?”

Fueller stared through the windshield  and didn’t say a word as they came to a red light and stopped.

“If I remember right,” Miller continued, “it was five years ago to the day. Halloween night. The report said he carved some weird symbols into the walls before he cut his wrists?”

The light turned green.

Miller accelerated. “Yes,” Fueller said. “Nobody could identify them so they just plastered over them and painted the cell.”

Miller was quiet for a moment, “So what are you telling me, Carl, that cell 13 is haunted?”

Fueller laughed uneasily, “Shit, Frank. We make mistakes like that all the time and the ghosts don’t come back and haunt us. You keep thinking like that and they’re going to admit you to the USC psychiatric ward.”

Miller responded, “I’m just saying Carl, that the coincidences are starting to pile up and we should talk to the captain about putting a camera in there. Some kind of surveillance.”

“That’s probably a good idea, Frank, and we should ask Captain Harris again. Damn, the rain is really coming down.”

    The rain was now coming down in sheets and Detective Frank Miller was having problems seeing out the window.

 Fueller’s eyes widened and he yelled, “Hey! Watch out!” 

A huge semi truck came careening through the intersection and its brakes had failed. Miller barely had time to turn his head before the truck smashed into the side of their car.

Metal screamed; glass exploded as the detectives’ car spun across the intersection and slammed into a telephone pole.

For a few seconds there was nothing, and then Detective Frank Miller regained consciousness, barely. He looked toward Carl.

One glance was enough to tell Frank that Carl Fueller was dead.

Miller tried to breathe, and looking through the shattered window, he could see people gathering around the wreckage.

Then he re focused on his dead partner and saw the look of terror on his face. Focusing to look at the crowd, Miller saw Sally Constantine, the jail nurse, staring directly at him.

Miller saw the small black symbol on her hand, and then everything went dark.

* * *

That night, midnight arrived at the Los Angeles County Jail.

The footsteps of the night shift faded down the corridor.

Cell 13 stood empty as the temperature began to fall and the overhead lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then, deep in the Los Angeles County Jail, two gleaming red eyes appeared in the darkness, above Cell number13.