The Ninth Hour / Season 1, Episode 9
Shadows of C-18
Diane Kessler’s boots scuffed against the concrete floor of C-Block, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence that clung to the air like damp rot. It was 2:49 AM, and the overhead fluorescents flickered just enough to make her squint, casting jagged shadows across the row of steel doors. Her flashlight beam cut through the dim, bouncing off the chipped paint of cell C-18, the empty one that hadn’t stopped feeling wrong since the new wing opened. She stopped walking, her breath catching for no reason she could name, and pressed a gloved hand to the wall. Cold seeped through the leather, sharp as a blade, though the thermostat in the guard station had read a steady 68 degrees an hour ago. Her other hand hovered near the radio clipped to her shoulder, thumb brushing the button, but she didn’t press it. Not yet. Ramirez would just grunt through the static, tell her she’s imagining things again, and she wasn’t in the mood for his half-asleep sarcasm. A faint scrape echoed down the corridor, like a nail dragged across stone, coming from somewhere past C-24. Diane’s jaw tightened, her pulse kicking up a notch. She tilted her head, listening, the beam of her light sweeping slow and steady down the row. Nothing moved. Nothing she could see. But the air...