The screams echoed through the cold, damp walls of Cell 47 every night. Guards avoided walking past it after sundown, and even the other prisoners kept their distance. No one knew the man’s name—just that he had arrived months ago, silent as the grave. And then, the screaming began.
At first, the guards dismissed it as madness. But there was something about his cries—raw, desperate, filled with a terror that went beyond the usual nightmares of the damned.
One night, a young guard named Salem was assigned to the late shift. Unlike the others, he was curious. What could drive a man to such horror, night after night? He waited until the screams subsided into ragged breathing, then approached the cell.
“Why do you scream?” Salem whispered through the bars.
The prisoner turned, his gaunt face pale in the moonlight. His eyes, wide with torment, locked onto Salem’s.
“They come for me,” he rasped.
“Who?”
The prisoner shuddered. “The ones I wronged. The ones I buried. They whisper in the dark. They claw at the walls. They want me to join them.”
Salem felt the air grow cold. He looked at the stone walls—solid, untouched. Yet he swore he heard a faint scratching.
“There’s nothing there,” Salem said, forcing a smile.
The prisoner let out a hollow laugh. “Not yet.”
That night, Salem didn’t leave his post. When the screams returned, he swore he heard something else—low whispers, the sound of nails scraping stone.
By morning, the prisoner was gone. The cell was locked. No one had entered or left. All that remained were deep, bloody scratches on the walls.
And that night, the screaming started again.
This time, it was Salem.
The guards found Salem in Cell 47 the next morning, curled in the corner, his eyes wide with terror. His fingernails were cracked and bloody, as if he had tried to claw his way out.
“How did he get in there?” one guard whispered. “The cell was locked all night.”
No one had an answer. The prisoner was gone—no trace of him remained except the deep scratches on the walls. The warden, a man who believed in order over superstition, ordered Salem to be removed and taken to the infirmary.🥺
But Salem never spoke again. Not of what he saw, not of what he heard. He simply stared at the walls, eyes darting to shadows that weren’t there. And when night fell, the screaming returned.
It echoed through the prison just as before—raw, desperate, filled with terror. But now, it was Salem’s voice.
The guards sealed Cell 47, locking the horror inside. No prisoner was ever placed there again.
Yet, every night, the screams continued.🥺
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