The White Lady

Halloween, October 31, 1997

Tonight I start this journal. I do it to record a story. I’m not one to write much other than an occasional letter. But I feel moved, even compelled to relate the tragic tale that follows. I only hope that I can give the living horror justice. It’s the least I can do as I sit at this tiny desk, in my prison cell, sickened.

The first time I saw Lowell, my new bunkie, was a few weeks earlier. On October 3rd. The day I arrived at this facility. After being processed in, I was escorted to my cell, only to see Lowell before me, sitting upon his bunk, as if he were catatonic. If that wasn’t chilling enough, I was struck by his ghastly appearance. His thin, hollow cheeks. His gaunt frame; tall, as I would soon learn, but lifeless like a scarecrow. His clothing hung about him as though he were a child in man’s clothes. He was unshaven and likely hadn’t shaved for a long time. But his whiskers had not grown into a beard and mustache. They were more like grisly sand paper, a course pelt with no life at all. He reminded me of the horrific images one sees now and again of holocaust victims. Perhaps the single most disturbing part of Lowell’s appearance is his hair. It’s unkept, it’s long, and it’s pale white with a sickening luster not unlike that of a spider’s web. He looked like a sickly, brittle old man overcome with the heavy burdens of a long, sad life spent without a single day of happiness or simple pleasures. He looked like he had known the deepest of struggles and had lost every battle he’d fought. I’ve never seen someone so completely without hope. I’ve never seen someone look so defeated, so empty, so old.

Thus my shock when I discovered Lowell was only 32. But I wouldn’t learn that until later.

As it was, I knew immediately he was in the wrong place. Prison, doing hard time with convicts like me, was not what he needed. He should have been in some mental institution, some care center. I was very curious as to what landed him in the joint, but I was to be disappointed in persuading him to speak a word to me. Not a single word. He didn’t even shake my hand when I greeted him as I threw my newly issued blanket and small pillow on the unclaimed top bunk.

I had hated my previous cell mate before my transfer to this pre-release facility. I had so hoped to have a more agreeable person with whom to spend the endless hours as my new bunkie. But it wasn’t to be. Instead, I had Lowell.

I was with him for two weeks before I ever witnessed him eat. And then it was just a bite. Just a spoonful of the morning’s mush. I watched him take in this nourishment and was left to believe he viewed his morsel as a chore to consume.

I spoke to him every day. I always said ‘good morning’. I suppose I asked him at least twenty times a day to say something to me. Anything. Even swear at me, yell at me and tell me to shut up. I would ask him if he was a mute. If he was deaf. But he’d offer no response. It was as if I wasn’t even there.

The regimen of this facility required that we get at least one hour a day outside. We could have more time in the vast yard, if we chose during free time, but each block was assigned its own hour each morning, and every inmate had to comply. Knowing it was a requirement, Lowell always took his turn, but appeared to take no pleasure in it at all. Not in the fresh air, not in the sunshine, not in the change of scenery. He sat upon a bench by himself and looked off in the distance in a thousand yard stare while the rest of the inmates played basketball, walked, jogged, played handball, or just gathered in groups to talk. When it was our block’s time to go back inside, he filed in line and returned to our cell and lay back on his bunk. He usually spent his waking moments either lying or sitting upon his bunk. Sometimes I do believe it was the stiffness of his legs from so much inactivity that caused him to walk the perimeter of the block now and again during free time. During these walks outside of our cell, he never showed any interest in the TV the pod shared. Neither did he seem to take notice of any board games or cards being played by other inmates. He never acknowledged by even a glance that there were other people besides himself present. I intended to ask other inmates in our block about him, but I never did. Friendships and associations were slow in coming at this new place and I was very unhappy here.

Yeah, it was pre-release, but my parole was up in the air. I could get out in a matter of weeks. Or a couple more years. It will all be determined by the parole board at some undisclosed date, my hearing having taken place a couple months earlier.

For the time being, and for all I knew for a long time to come, it was my lot to work past the bad vibes and somehow get used to this place. Even if Lowell was a hindrance. I got the impression he sort of creeped people out. No one actually said such a thing, but guys behaved funny around him. They’d walk by the cell and look in on us. I’d nod and they would invariably turn away, without returning the greeting, with a certain sort of uneasiness.

As though they were spooked.

I guess since I was with Lowell, it was guilt by association because whenever I approached anyone I sensed wariness on their part; at the very least I didn’t feel welcome. I had no idea why Lowell and my association with him would have such an impact on folks.

I got a clue after we’d been cell mates for a couple of weeks.

I was jarred awake in the dead of the night by the sound of Lowell yelling out ‘No! No! No!’ My heart was in my throat as I jumped off the bunk to help him. I didn’t know what to expect and I was ready to defend myself and him, my adrenaline pumping fast and furious as I searched in the darkness wildly as Lowell continued to call out. But he wasn’t saying words now. He was crying out in mournful horror.

It was a few seconds before I realized we were alone and that Lowell was having a nightmare. I took my trembling body to his bedside and sat upon his bunk. His blanket had been kicked off and I picked it up. He ceased crying out, but his terrified breathing continued to labor. I sensed he was now awake and was aware of me. I let his breathing catch up with him before I spoke.

“You okay?” I asked him quietly. He didn’t speak, but in the darkness I thought I saw him very slightly nod.

I patted him on his knee and gave him his blanket. Then I jumped back up to my top bunk. I lay back with mixed emotions. His level of terror had scared the devil out of me, and I remained quite spooked. But I was rather satisfied that we had just shared a brief communication.

The next morning when I greeted him, he looked me in the eye and nodded. I never felt such pity for another human being in my entire life. His eyes were pools of emptiness and despair.

But happy with yet another successful interaction, I left it at that and went about the day without pushing him to communicate with me further. I sensed he’d come around eventually if I was patient.

I was right. In the course of the next few days, he began to speak to me. Small talk, nothing significant. If I asked anything too personal, he would clam up completely, so I stayed away from such questions. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse, deep, as though his vocal cords were out of practice.

He still seemed to gain no pleasure from the time outside or the walks he’d go on. He still acknowledged no one in the yard or throughout the block, not even me. He’d only speak to me in the confines of our cell.

And he had another nightmare. This time I didn’t jump off my bunk. I waited until the yelling out subsided and the labored breathing on the bunk below slowed before I spoke quietly from where I lay on the top bunk.

“You okay?”

Several seconds passed before he answered.

“Yes….thank you.”

Because of his similar response to this nightmare I wondered if it were of a recurring sort. The next morning, after breakfast, before our time in the yard, I decided to push the envelope and ask him a personal question.

“Lowell,” I said, trying to be casual as I looked up from the issue of Newsweek I was reading. I was at the desk in our cell, seated in the only chair; he was seated on the edge of his bunk, with his familiar air of detachment.

“The dream you had last night. Is it a recurring nightmare?”

He slowly turned his gaze from some faraway spot and looked me square in the eye.

“Yes.”

I swallowed, my curiosity piqued.

“How often does it happen?” I asked, pushing my luck, but unable to stop myself.

His gaze had shifted back to that distant place. I watched him, feeling the accustomed disappointment in my attempts to probe into his life. I figured I’d crossed his boundary. Then he lowered his eyes to the floor, clenching his jaws, working them, apparently deciding whether or not to speak further. He looked back up to me, a piercing look holding my eyes on his.

“It happened once,” he said. Then his eyes released mine and returned to the empty stare.

“I relive it over and over.”

His response sent chills coursing through my body. At that moment, I held no desire to press him further. But my curiosity wasn’t killed for good. It was all but a week later when I broached the subject again. I needed to know what had happened to haunt this man so terribly. I sensed that he needed to speak of it. I sensed that perhaps his trust being built up in me was the very thing he needed to gain the confidence to share his burden. For some reason, I had grown quite fond of Lowell and truly wanted to help him. Yet I must confess that I’m not sure my motives were entirely laced with compassion alone.

I was dying to learn more.

“What happened to you, Lowell?” I asked one night as we lay in the darkness, just a few minutes after lights out. There was no response from the bunk below. I waited at least a minute before speaking further.

“Please tell me,” I softly pleaded.

Silence. I abandoned my hopes of finding out anything further about the mystery surrounding Lowell and rolled over to go to sleep.

“I’ve never spoken of it,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “Not to a soul.”

I dared not breathe, afraid it would give him pause to continue. A minute passed in silence.

“It’s time for me to talk about it,” he said. “It will take some time, but I will tell you my story.”

I waited to be sure he was finished speaking.

“Good night, Lowell,” I finally said.

That was three days ago. I resisted temptation to press him, and let him broach the subject in his own time. I wasn’t sure how he’d proceed, but knew he’d do it his own way.

As it turned out, once he started the telling he didn’t want to stop. It took him quite nearly all of the night.

Last night. Friday, October 30th. When he finished telling me, just a few minutes ago, early Saturday morning, he drifted off into a deep sleep on his bunk, where he sleeps now.

I decided I must write his story down. I’m not sure why, but I am following my compulsion to do so. I feel the details are important so I will be as descriptive as memory and tedium allows. I will write as though there will be a reader someday, though I can’t imagine the circumstance that would provide such. Nonetheless, dear reader, what follows is the tragic story of Lowell.

I feel to warn you. It is a disturbing tale. You may want to consider whether to proceed further. Once you hear the whole story, it will bother you. You may not be able to get it out of your mind. Perhaps it will torture you, as it does me. Perhaps not. But whatever may happen, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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