...and gone!

It took me a little while to convince Larry that I had no intention of putting him back into his former cell. He was definitely terrified. Once satisfied I was not there to send him into the swirling vortex of terror, he calmed again and shook his head hard, like a possessed bobble-head doll. “It was real crazy, I tell you! You can ask anybody that was back there-they all seen somethin’ at least once! Or heard somethin’, or somethin’!”

I decided it was time to cease my inquiry. I had heard enough “somethin’s” and I was fearful Larry’s head might begin to spin around and spew pea soup. The only thing left for me was to investigate our Ghost on my own, in person, mano a mano, so to speak. I took it upon myself to begin doing the nighttime security walks in Dorm One myself.

Walking about in a dark jail, with nothing but a flashlight for company, has a spook-value of about 85 to begin with. When you add the tale of a wandering ghost, plus all the unusual sounds that drift out from the cells (don’t ask) it can be a pretty intimidating thing for anyone to do. I don’t know of any officer who enjoys doing nighttime walkabouts, but they are necessary to try and keep safety and security in the jail situation.

They can be dangerous, too, but not from the inmates point of view. I was on a late night walk-about one night when one of our rather “playful” deputies decided to sneak up behind me and give me a good, old-fashioned scare. I do not recommend this, if anyone out there has ever had such an inclination. This playful deputy crept up behind me in a dark corridor behind the cells and blew on the back of my neck. I suppose he forgot that I had had self-defense training, just like everyone else. The large, black metal flashlight in my hand became an instantaneous weapon and without giving a thought to anything but my own safety, I cold-cocked our playful deputy.

I did not, for one moment, believe that a metal flashlight would be of much use against a ghost, however. I thought about carrying a wooden stake or a clump of garlic, but it occurred to me that those were for protection against of vampires. The metal cross around my neck was always a handy weapon, as well, but only if your attacker was a werewolf. Try as I might, I could not recall any method of protection from ghosts. Maybe a few Hail Mary’s? Nope, I was not Catholic. It seemed I was on my own.

For the first few nights, in fact the first week of my self-imposed nighttime walk-abouts, I really didn’t see or hear (or smell) anything out of the ordinary. Inmates snored and mumbled and thrashed in their sleep, not to mention the occasional dispelling of noxious gasses from the evening’s fare of beans and franks. I wondered why any ghost would want to wander around in such an atmosphere? Why not the lovely, old hotel across the street? Or one of the beautiful, old renovated homes that served as Funeral parlors on the next block? No accounting for taste, I suppose.

It was while I was wondering this and turning the corner in the far back section of the corridor that I felt the cold. I can best describe it as the first gush of cold air one feels when you pull open a refrigerator door. It was a dry, sharp, odorless chill that sort of swept around me and then dissipated, all in the period of approximately ten seconds. Like a window coming open on a February night, except that none of the small, barred window along the top of the corridor walls could be physically opened.

I stopped and waved my flashlight. Nothing. No sound at all, in fact I could not even hear the inmates snoring and flatulating, but that may have been due to the loud hammering of my heartbeat in my ears.

I finally began to walk again, taking baby steps so as not to stir up the chill factor again, but I did not hear or see or feel anything else until I rounded the end of the back corridor and started along the western wall. As I walked, flashlight shaking, I began to be attacked. It wasn’t really much of an onslaught, but it scared the bejeezus out of me! Every time I passed a cell window, whatever was on that sill flew off and hit the cement floor with a crash! Feet, don’t fail me now!

It is about fifty feet from where I stood to the exit out of that cellblock and I made it in record time, all the while being followed by the sound of various articles flying off the cell windowsills to the floor.

I burst out of the heavy cellblock door into the light of the main floor area with my hair standing on end, or so it seemed to me. The three other people on duty that night must have thought I was being chased by tigers, or worse, and since they are blessed with warped senses of humor, I was met with a barrage of snide remarks and quips that suggested I was losing my mind.

“Maybe so,” I recall saying in between my gasps for breath, “But something in there has a bad case of icy breath and chased me all the way out and knocked all the crap off the inmate’s cell windows!”

I must admit, they did end up giving me a chance to explain but the looks they shared with one another told me they were ready to call for a straightjacket. Still, the sergeant on duty decided it was only fair to give me the benefit of the doubt and go see what I was talking about.

We crept back into the cellblock-well, I crept, and he just walked quietly. Inside, it was dimly lit, as always, and the sounds, smells, and air temperature was nothing out of the ordinary. Well, okay, my ghost had decided to stop the refrigerator routine, but I had the strewn articles from the cell windowsills as proof.

Except that when I took the sergeant around to the western corridor to show him the remnants of my ghostly attack, there was nothing to show. All the pencils, soap boxes, drinking cups, photographs and the rest of the inmate treasures were sitting neatly in place on their windowsills, right where they had been before Casper decided to play a game of Scare The Deputy. Nothing scattered on the cement floors, nothing out of place, nothing to prove my sanity at all, and the whole dorm full of inmates continued to sleep, snore, mumble and fart without the slightest notion of what had just occurred.

Detention Officers are a polite bunch, all in all. No one ever mentioned that little episode to me again. Oh, I’m very sure they all talked about it among themselves and had a few wonderful chuckles, but they were tactful enough not to call our local mental health center or to alert the media. After a while the pitiful stares eased up, too, especially when several other inmates, over time, spoke in whispered tones about the Ghost.

I’m pretty sure William stuck up for me. He had witnessed Casper, after all, and he assured me that other officers had had connections with our friend, also. They were probably just too wise, or embarrassed, to admit to it. No problem. I know what I saw and felt that night and no one will ever convince me otherwise. I think my only regret is that Casper is still there in the jail, as far as I know. The elevator still rises and opens every night and the inmates in Dorm One still occasionally report strange happenings. I doubt our Ghost is dangerous. On the contrary, I think he is very sad and frustrated. I wish there was a way to help him out, to allow him to move on and locate someplace more pleasant to spend his time. I know I would not want to spend my eternity in the Yavapai County Jail.