Cell 19

They say Cell 19 in Greywater Prison in Atwater, Maine isn’t supposed to exist, yet every guard can point to its door without hesitation. It sits at the far end of North Block, tucked beneath a flickering light that maintenance claims they’ve replaced a dozen times. Inmates whisper that the cell wasn’t built—it appeared. The blueprints from 1953 show nothing between Cell 18 and Cell 20, only a blank stretch of concrete wall. Still, Cell 19 stands there like a bruise on the building, a mark that refuses to fade. Everyone sees it, yet no one understands how.

Wardens over the decades have tried to explain it away. Some say it was added during a renovation and never documented, though no such renovation matches its strange, archaic architecture. Others claim it is a clerical oversight, a simple numbering error. But the inmates know better. They watch the cell. They track its position like astronomers obsessing over the movement of a dark star. Some days it appears closer to the guard station. Other days it shifts deeper into the hall, as if the prison itself is inhaling and exhaling, pulling the cell in and out with each breath.

Those unlucky enough to be transferred into Cell 19 rarely stay long. No one is sentenced to it; they simply end up there after fights, infractions, or administrative reshuffles. The guards try to treat it as any other cell, but something in their eyes betrays their discomfort. They deliver meals with trembling hands. They avoid looking through the slot. They walk faster when they pass it, as though each second spent near its door takes something from them. For the inmates assigned there, the experience begins normally enough—cold floor, thin mattress, distant shouts echoing from other blocks.

But the first night always changes everything. Without warning, whispers seep from the darkness, thin as threads of cold wind. They don’t say words at first—just numbers. A slow, steady count that drips through the air like leaking water. Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight. The voice is always calm, almost gentle, as if the unseen speaker has all the time in the world. Inmates plug their ears, stuff rags under the door, or slam their fists against the walls until their knuckles split. But the counting never stops. It simply burrows deeper, curling into the folds of the mind.

By the third night, the numbers fall faster, spoken in harsh breaths that scrape against the eardrums. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. The inmates bang on the cell door, begging to be moved. Some scream that someone is in the room with them. Others claim the voice presses against their spine, whispering directly into their bones. Guards write incident reports, but none are allowed to mention the counting. They are told to call it stress, hallucination, or manipulation. Still, several quit abruptly after guarding that corridor, leaving behind uniforms folded neatly on their bunks, as if fleeing in the night.

When the countdown reaches one, something happens that no one can fully explain. Every inmate housed in Cell 19 disappears. There are no signs of escape—no tampered locks, no broken bars, no tunnel scraped beneath the floor. The cameras, outdated and grainy, show the prisoner tossing and turning during the final hours, then sitting upright just before dawn. A cold haze fills the room. The figure sinks into the mattress as though the fabric becomes liquid. And then they are gone, dissolving from view like mist burned away by sunlight. All that remains is a cold, concave impression.

Greywater Prison has recorded seventeen such vanishings over its lifespan, each one labeled an “unresolved missing inmate event.” Wardens who attempted to seal the cell found their efforts undone by morning. Welded doors peeled open. Wooden boards splintered apart. Heavy chains coiled on the floor as though set aside by a patient hand. Cell 19 refuses closure. It demands occupants. Some guards believe the prison itself is alive, an ancient husk feeding on the fear of men. Others whisper older tales—that before Greywater stood, the land beneath was a burial ground for something that should never awaken.

In 1984, a priest was invited to bless the cell. He lasted twelve minutes before collapsing, gasping that he could feel someone counting inside his lungs. No further religious intervention was attempted. Psychologists later tried to study the phenomenon, placing recording devices within the walls. When they reviewed the tapes, they heard nothing but static—until the final seconds, when a single voice whispered the numbers one through ten in reverse order. The researchers abandoned the project immediately. Most left the state entirely. One destroyed all notes and refused to speak of the cell again, even decades later.

Despite everything, the cell remains active. Inmates gamble cigarettes on how long the next occupant will last. New prisoners hear rumors and dismiss them as ghost stories until they walk the hallway themselves and see the crooked door at the end, slightly ajar, waiting. Some say shadows linger behind the bars even when the room is empty. Others swear they have seen hands pressing through the mattress as though someone is trapped beneath it, struggling to surface. Yet every inspection reveals nothing—no marks on the walls, no hidden compartments, no reason for the cell’s hunger.

One winter, a man named Porter Haskell was placed in Cell 19 after a fight in the yard. Porter was known for his strength, his temper, and his belief in nothing. He laughed when he heard the rumors and shouted into the cell that he feared no ghost. That first night, the countdown began at fifty. Porter shouted back, mocking the unseen voice. But when it reached thirty, he fell silent. The next day he refused breakfast. By nightfall he was pacing, muttering numbers under his breath as if trying to beat the count to zero himself.

On the final night, the camera caught Porter smashing his fists against the wall, screaming for the voice to stop. His breath fogged heavily, even though the prison’s heating system was functioning normally. At two minutes past four in the morning, he sat down on the bunk, trembling. The whispers spilled through the room like a blizzard, the numbers tumbling faster than any human could speak. When the countdown hit one, Porter doubled over as if punched by an invisible hand. Then, slowly, his body sank into the mattress. By sunrise, all that remained was the dent.

The warden at the time attempted something different. He ordered the cell bricked up entirely, sealing the room behind a new wall of concrete and steel. For three days, the corridor felt strangely calm. The air was warmer. The lights stopped flickering. Guards joked that maybe Cell 19 had finally been laid to rest. But on the fourth morning, the new wall was gone. In its place stood the original iron-barred door of Cell 19, slightly open, as if inviting them to look inside. The bricks and steel were never found. They seemed to have vanished into the earth.

After that, no one attempted to seal it again. Instead, they tried to ignore it, assigning the corridor only to the most senior guards, the ones with steady hands and dead eyes. But even they refused to linger. Many claimed to hear footsteps inside the empty cell, pacing in circles. Others heard the sound of fingernails scraping the underside of the bunk, as if someone were crawling back up from beneath it. One guard quit mid-shift after seeing a face appear in the observation slot—one with no eyes, only dark hollows that seemed to stretch into infinity.

Yet the prison never closes the block. Funding is low, transfers are slow, and overcrowding is constant. So eventually, someone is always placed in Cell 19 again. The process repeats every few years. An inmate vanishes. The cell resets. The whispers begin anew. Some theorize that the cell feeds on fear, on dread, on that tightness in the chest that comes when the lights go out. Others believe it takes only those who are closest to breaking, saving the worst for last. But no one can say for certain. The cell does not explain itself. It only waits.

Greywater Prison officials deny all rumors. They call the stories exaggerated, the disappearances clerical errors or early releases misfiled in old records. But former inmates speak differently. They warn newcomers never to look directly at the door on the north side of the block. They say that if you stare at it too long, the hallway seems to grow narrower, the shadows deeper, until you feel the door breathing with you. Some swear the numbers seep into their dreams long after they’ve left, whispering faintly at the edges of sleep, reminding them that the countdown never really ends.

Today, Cell 19 still stands in Greywater Prison, neither condemned nor acknowledged in any official document. The door remains slightly ajar, as if something inside is listening, waiting for its next occupant to step through. Guards pass it quickly. Inmates avert their eyes. And at night, if you listen closely from the far end of the corridor, you might hear it—a faint whisper, beginning its patient descent from fifty. No one knows what happens to those taken by the cell. But all agree on one thing. Once the counting reaches one, you don’t leave Cell 19. Cell 19 leaves with you.