Call me Lumberjack. That’s what I learned to call it when I was locked up in MTU in Ionia, MI. Five years. Five years, long ones, for second-degree home invasion. I was a stupid kid when I walked in, thinking I was tough, thinking I’d seen the worst the world could throw at me. Sorry, I was wrong.
My story is in my third year inside, when they put me in Unit D, way down the end of the hall on base. Unit D was a place where the walls peeled and the lights flickered on like they were afraid to stay on. There was always a faint smell of bleach in the air, and something rotten underneath that. Maybe sweat. Or old anger that never quite dissipates.
I worked in the kitchen at night, washing pans till my knuckles bled. The days blurred. Repeat Lockdown chow time count time. But that afternoon the monotony was broken by something that struck a chill of fear into me that still makes me creep, even now, three years free and clear.
It was about two-thirty in the afternoon, too early for the evening rush, too late for the morning noise. I was on my bunk staring at the cracked ceiling thinking nothing and everything. That's when I heard it. A voice calling through the vent from the next cell over, but indistinct.
“Have they called count time yet?
I blinked and sat up a little puzzled. I hadn't heard anyone enter that cell, but I could have missed it. "No," I replied. "Not yet. I tried to lay down but couldn’t sleep.
After a few minutes the voice came again, a little louder, a little more anxious. "Have they rung calling-time?"
This time there was irritation. No! Dude! Not yet. "Well, relax
I shut my eyes, praying that was it, but it wasn't. The third time it was insistent, nearly desperate. Have they called the count yet?
I squeezed the trigger. "Shut up! "Trying to sleep. Don't play me for no fool, or it's gonna be trouble! My voice echoed down the hall. There was silence for a moment. I lay there waiting for the usual bang on the wall, the curse back but nothing. Just a heavy, suffocating silence.
And an hour later they really called time on it. One of the only guards who treated us like humans was Officer Hollenbeck who came by with her clipboard checking us off one by one. When she came to my cell, I said, "Hey, what's up with the guy next door? The one who is yelling about the count time?"
Officer Hollenbeck shot me a weird look, her eyes narrowed. Nobody in there," she said softly. The cell is empty. The guy who had it before him… he… he killed himself a few days ago. No one has moved in since. "They're still in clean-up.
Her words were a punch in the gut. I glanced at her. I tried to take in what she had said. “Suicide? What do you mean by that?”
She paused, then drew close, her voice a murmur. Razor cut his throat. They found him at count-time. It’s been… rough ’round here since then. Are you sure you heard something?
I nodded, the hair on my arms standing up. Yeah. "I heard him." "Three, minimum.
She shook her head, stepped back, and moved on. I sat on my bunk and suddenly realized how cold the cell had become. Something I couldn't name hung in the air.
I couldn't sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes I kept seeing the shadow of a person standing in the corner, just out of view. It was about midnight when through the vent from the next cell came a soft tuneless humming: The tune was broken, gone, like someone trying to recall a song from their childhood.
And then came the tapping. A finger maybe. A fingernail maybe. Light at first, then insistent. Tapping on the concrete wall between us. My heart was beating in my chest but I did not move, I did not fear the satisfaction of victory.
And then the voice. 'Where am I? “Where am I?”
The same voice, now full of confusion and pain, echoing off the metal and stone. I buried my head in my pillow trying to drown it out but it leaked through. Unceasing. Entreaty
Who am I? “Where am I?
I don’t remember going to sleep.” I opened my eyes, Dawn. Heart pounding, sweating. The tapping had ceased, the humming had ceased. But the cold remained, gnawing at my bones.
That morning I went straight to Officer Hollenbeck and asked to be transferred. She didn't ask why. She was sure, maybe. Maybe she’d heard stories like mine before."
That afternoon I was transferred to a different unit. I packed my things silently, never once looking across at the cell next door. I thought I heard a whisper as I was leaving. It was so faint I almost thought I'd imagined it. Have they called count time yet?
“I’ve been out for three years now. I've got a good job, my own flat, a decent car. I follow the law. No more breaking and entering. No more prison food. No more staring at the same four walls and watching the time crawl past.
But sometimes, late at night, when the world is too quiet and the shadows are long, I think of Unit D. I think of the empty cell at the end of the hall, and of the voice that was not mine. I think to myself, some places are haunted by people who never really went away.