Cell 4B3 — Kurtis Steale

Another Morbid Ink Short Story

The guard flipped the small cover shut after she looked in on Owen Price. The prisoner leaned back against the wall, adjusting his position while he waited for his execution. Between his fingers, a cigarette slowly burned, which he occasionally took a drag from. Surprisingly, his hands weren’t shaking yet. Owen expected that to happen as the last hour drew closer.

The metallic snap of the door caused the prisoner to look up. The solid door opened, showing his visitor.

“Owen,” the priest nodded.

“Hey padre! How’s it hanging? Find any boys to play with tonight?”

The priest frowned at the insult, but his words remained friendly.

“I’m here at your request. Are you ready to confess your sins?”

Owen laughed, then took an unconcerned drag on his cancer stick.

“I’m agnostic, so I’ll say no,” he replied. “We’ve had that talk. I’ve seen evil beyond your comprehension, so we’re way past talking about souls.”

He paused, observing the thin man on the other side of the bars. The priest wore a full collared black shirt and matching black pants.

“If I tell you the story everyone wants to hear, can you give me a Seal of Confession?” Owen finally asked.

The priest put his hands on the cell bars, only to be warned by the nearby guard not to touch them.

“I can only promise you that should you confess,” the man answered as he pulled his hands from the bars.

Owen considered the words for a moment, then let out a sigh.

“Well, you can call it a confession if it makes you feel better, but I want that promise from you. Plus, it will get the guard away from hearing it. Have her get you a seat. I have one waiting for me already.” Owen smirked at his ghoulish joke.

A few minutes later, the priest sat in front of Cell 4B3 to listen to the story of a condemned man. A man who refused to talk with police detectives, investigators or his lawyer after he killed his girlfriend, along with two other people. Instead, Owen remained silent to everyone but his lawyer. His only words to the lawyer were to expedite his execution faster. The condemned man pushed to get the wheels of justice moving quicker at every turn possible.

After checking his watch, the priest waited with growing anticipation while Owen lit another cigarette.

“Don’t be in such a hurry, padre. We have plenty of time. I hear the soul is eternal. Now, here is the story!”

~~~

Inside the darkened room, Price raised his head. The soothing chanting sound coming from the short and squat medium was putting him to sleep. A late-night seance he and his friends put together for fun started to weigh on him. Long weeks under the gun at work made him reconsider the wisdom of using a Friday night for something other than sleep.

Price glanced over at the fat woman when she finally ordered a spirit to appear. A thin light coming from a narrow crack in the curtain behind him gave him a partial view of Madame Célestine’s face. The flabby third chin of the medium flopped around as she spoke a mixture of Spanish and Creole. For Price, he considered it a part of the entertainment. His natural skepticism grew the longer the woman next to him played the role of entertainer.

Owen looked over the vague outlines of his girlfriend and their friends around the table. On his left was Alex Turner’s wife, Charlotte, who held his hand. She, in turn, held her husband’s hand as he sat next to the medium. Next to Owen, more hidden in the darkness, was his girlfriend, Luna Gardner. He didn’t need to see her face since he was sure Luna was smiling as the event progressed. One of her fingers occasionally tickled the palm of his hand, which she clasped. He recognized her playfulness would keep him up later tonight. But it wasn’t a complaint, he decided, as he suppressed a yawn.

Owen noticed the medium shift in her chair, and he caught movement out of the corner of his right eye. He turned his head slightly, assuming the movement came from his girlfriend. But, his eyes, wide in the darkness, focused on something between Luna and the medium.

A smoky haze lazily twisted in the air. Unformed, then moving convolutions of gray green showed a few feet behind Luna. It was almost invisible, almost unreal to him. Yet it was there, a ghostly mist that rolled idly in the darkness where only its own luminescent light showed.

And then from the mist came something more substantial. Formless at first, the fog-like structure stabilized to take on shape and substance. A partially humanoid face settled between the medium and Luna. He stared in disbelief, then glanced at Madame Célestine, who had her head turned, looking at the same spot.

“Owen, that hurts!” Luna’s voice finally broke through his trance.

He realized he was squeezing his girlfriend’s hand. Price dropped her hand and pointed at the face.

“Look there!” he hissed.

“Where?” Luna’s voice sounded irritated.

Owen realized she couldn’t see his pointing hand.

“To your right!”

He heard her gasp and caught the movement of Luna jerking back.

The face suddenly disappeared before reappearing in front of Price. Somehow, he kept from falling back in his chair. He felt his hand lifted by the icy fingers of another. He looked down and saw a disembodied hand holding his. The fingers appeared thin and delicate, similar to Luna’s.

“Christ, it touched me!” Price blurted out. He finally realized he wasn’t breathing during the encounter. “This is frigging crazy as hell!”

Charlotte’s voice broke through the silence filling the room.

“Alex, turn on the light! Now!”