I remember everything about the first time I laid eyes on the prisoner, Artus de Lorraine. I should have known right then that the world would end this way.

PART ONE - 1984

That first day began as all the others had in my first two years as a prison guard. An early morning start at the courtyard entrance of the compound, a long walk through security with my usual coffee and bagel in hand. Intake inspection was extensive for anyone working inside the buildings. This was a maximum security facility, so nothing could be left to chance; not an added safety pin, a forgotten nail file, or a whiff of alcohol on a guard’s breath. North State Correctional in Amarillo was the largest prison in Texas. It held nearly five thousand inmates and carried out an average of nine executions per year. That was by far the most in the country. Just over a thousand guards and security officers were coming in and out of the building at different times, so it normally took me about fifteen minutes to get through the metal detectors, the X-rays, the pat-downs, and get to my post on time.

That morning, though, the process lasted a bit longer. Security took more time to check my hidden places carefully: behind my belt, under my collar, the cuffs of my shirt, my pants. They, of course, found nothing suspicious. I’m not one of those guards who smuggles in contraband to sell to the inmates. The extra cash isn’t worth the risk of getting thrown on the other side of those bars. Also, this job is all about power dynamics between the guards and the incarcerated men. They had to know we were in charge at all times. It didn’t matter if you oversaw the minimum-security wing, G Block, with the violent inmates who were always plotting to murder you or each other, or Death Row, where everyone knew their end was coming fast. The inmates outnumbered us five to one. We couldn’t give an inch. If you’re working for them, they’ve got something on you, and the whole dynamic is immediately upended. That can breed disaster. Can’t have that, even if they’re willing to pay you a hundred dollars to smuggle in some nail clippers. You don’t fuck around with the rules in this place.

Once security was satisfied that I was compliant with protocols, I was asked to report to the warden’s office before heading to my usual post. My heart sank when I heard that, but I wasn’t sure why. Nerves, I suppose. Most of us had only met the warden once or twice, so being summoned to her office meant that something big was happening. It had to be something serious, high-level. I walked through the hallways, listening to the usual thuds and clangs of the prison doors opening for breakfast, and the general murmur of the boys waking up. It felt wrong not to be down there with everyone, but they assured me that my post would be covered. I did my best to trust them.

I rapped my knuckles on the heavy oak door and removed my hat. The warden’s voice boomed as she asked me to enter. I stepped in to find Warden Gena Boulanger, a brash and boxy woman, behind her desk.

“Benjamin Hobbs?” She asked.

I nodded my confirmation, and she gestured toward the chairs across from her. One of my colleagues, another guard named Adrian Hardy, was already seated. Behind Warden Boulanger sat my boss, Terence Winterbourne, who we all called Terry. He was in charge of organizing all the guards in the prison, which gave him a permanent scowl and harsh demeanor. We all understood why, though. And we appreciated his attention to detail. Nobody envied the man’s position.

My first thought was that Adrian had screwed up, gotten himself into some hot water and they needed me to weigh in somehow. He was known to be a hothead, someone who played a little fast and loose with the procedures and who occasionally let the inmates rattle his cage and get him angry. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Terry and the warden were asking my thoughts on his behavior. But as I sat down next to him, Adrian looked just as confused as I was. Whatever this was, we were both in the same boat.

“I’m gonna cut right to it,” the warden began, “We’re transferring you both to a different position in the prison. It’s a very specific kind of job, and both of you were carefully selected to receive the offer. It’s more money, a lot more in fact, but the day-to-day will be something you’ve never trained for.”

Terry leaned forward then and laid his thick Texan accent on us, “I wantcha both to be absolutely certain yer ready for it, before acceptin’. It’s unorthodox, and it’s a big change from what yer doin’ now.”

“The guards restructuring, sir?” I asked.

“No, guard duties’ll remain the same throughout the prison. You two will essentially be on special assignment. Every day. No more of the usual rotation. You two both have spotless records, and you’ve already shown that you’re capable of handling the job.” Terry spoke quickly now, pushing through his usual southern drawl to get to his point. I could tell he had a lot more to say.

I snuck a side-eyed look at Adrian. He rubbed his chin while considering Terry’s unexpected offer. I grew suspicious almost immediately. It was strange for them to compare Adrian and I. We clearly had different approaches to our jobs. Sure, we both had spotless records, but mine was the kind that had never been dirty. Adrian’s record was spotless only because it had been cleaned over and over. But either the higher-ups didn’t realize or didn’t care about the distinction.

Warden Boulanger leaned forward and looked us both in the eye, “There is a much higher level of security clearance involved with this position. What I need from you both before moving forward is the understanding that this post will have some very specific requirements, and if those aren’t met, there will be hell to pay.”

“For all of us,” Terry added.

My brow furrowed. I saw Adrian do the same. He ran a hand through his hair and asked, “Are we talking about supermax, here? Because the two of us already have rotations in S Block.”

Terry shook his head, “Before we say anything else, your security clearance will need to be increased to the maximum, same as mine and the warden’s. That gives you access to the entire compound - every door, every window, every computer login, every camera. It will take some time to make it official, but we can fill out the forms afterward. Let me show you both what we’re talking about, and you can decide whether you’re in or you’re out.”

Terry and the warden both got to their feet. Still confused, but with curiosity piqued, I stood and followed everyone out of the office. We made our way to the stairwell along the west wall of the prison. Nobody ever came through that hallway. This whole area of the building was too far from anything useful. Much of this wing was unused storage closets. Even the janitors rarely came through. Terry and the warden led us to a rusty old door at the end of the hallway and into a dark stairwell.

As we walked down several flights, Adrian whispered to me, “What is this, spies or something?” I only shrugged my shoulders in response.

We reached the basement floor, and Warden Boulanger stepped in front of u,s holding out two sheets of paper. “These will need to be signed before going any further, boys.”

“What is it?” Adrian asked.

“It’s one of a few different Non-Disclosure Agreements. This says that any mention of what you’re about to see will result in an immediate arrest and a seizure of all assets. Same for your parents, spouses, children, and for anyone you’ve spoken to about this. Once you walk through the door, you will never be able to discuss what you see with anyone. Or you can turn around now and forget this conversation and this door.”

My heart began pounding with fear and excitement. I couldn’t help but think that my life would be different from that moment on. I was correct, but not in the way I’d hoped. I skimmed the document. The language was complex, but the message was clear.

If I talk, I’m fucked and so is everyone around me. Got it. Simple enough.

I shared another confused look with Adrian before I grabbed the pen and scribbled my signature. I handed over the pen, and Adrian followed my lead, signing his own name in a flurry of swoops and slashes. With a nod from the warden, Terry pulled a large key from his boot. He grunted as he straightened out his back - his old age showing a bit - and unlocked the door with a fresh CLANG I’d never heard before. The metal door swung open, and we all stepped into a massive basement. The ceiling was high, probably twenty feet. The opposite walls were barely visible. They were a good eighty yards away. It was a reminder of just how big the prison was. It looked like a warehouse. But while you’d expect such an open space to be used for storage, the whole area was surprisingly bare. The entire room was exposed concrete on the floors and the walls, with huge cylindrical pillars holding the ceiling above. Every footstep echoed through the room. Overhead fluorescents that did their best against the heavy dark. After just thirty seconds, I wanted to leave. But I had to see what was down there.

Terry spoke more, but his voice became a muffled, distant sound in my head. My attention was pulled to something else near the center of the room. Between all the columns connecting the floor and ceiling, I could see the thick metal bars of a jail cell. Very old-fashioned, almost like the ones I’d seen on Gunsmoke, or read about in old Victorian novels. The cell itself was one of the largest I’d ever seen. Freestanding in the center of the basement, there was one small gate with reinforced steel in a perfect square, the size of a small apartment. A metal table was bolted to the floor next to a metal chair. The back corner had a toilet and a small sink. The small bed was pushed off to one side.

“What in the fuck…?” Adrian mumbled to himself as our group moved toward the cell. Then he leaned over to me and whispered, “I didn’t even know this place was down here.”

“Neither did I,” I whispered back.

Ignoring us both, Terry barked, “Artus, on your feet!” His voice echoed for a good ten seconds before fading completely.

That’s when I stepped around one of the large columns and saw the sole prisoner in the cavernous room. He looked small in the middle of so much open space, even as he stood and revealed his large stature. The man had to be at least six foot five. There were no cuffs on his wrists, none on his ankles, nothing to tether him to the cell as you’d expect in an area with this much security and secrecy surrounding it. He looked more like an animal in a cage.

The four of us approached the cell. Adrian and I instinctively stayed back a few feet, still unsure of what we were seeing or what to expect. I tried not to let my face show too much shock and surprise. I’m not sure how successful I was at first.

“It’s time for me to introduce you to some new people,” Terry said.

The prisoner stepped forward, long arms dangling at his sides like heavy tree branches. His movements were slow but graceful. Long fingers reached up and wrapped around the bars as he leaned forward and inspected at us both. His frame was thin, but I had no doubt the man was strong. The paleness of his skin made me think he’d been malnourished, but he wasn’t. That’s just how he looked. It was odd, unexpected. Something about his face was simply… wrong. After all this time, I still can’t put my finger on why, exactly.

“Gentlemen, meet our special guest, Artus de Lorraine,” Terry said, his thick accent tearing the name to shreds. “Artus, this here’s Benjamin and Adrian. They’ll be taking over for me soon.”

“Two this time?” Artus grumbled. His voice was deep, almost soothing, like velvet in the air. But as he turned his head to look from one of us to the other, I got another good look at his face - gaunt and pale. His eyes were darker than any I’d ever seen, his irises a deep black, and there was red and yellow where the white should have been. At first, I assumed that he was very sick. But centered in the strangeness of his face, the yellow eyes looked… almost normal. He looked at me first, staring directly into my eyes, searching for something. After a moment that felt like ten full minutes, he shifted his gaze over to Adrian and did the same thing. Adrian shuddered slightly at the sight of him.

“Yes, we’re putting two guards on you this time. Figured it might lighten the load,” Terry said. “Fellas, Artus here is our oldest prisoner by a healthy margin. This new position will make you both responsible for his imprisonment, security of this room, and maintaining the secrecy of his existence. I’ve done it for the last forty years, but I’m on my way out.”

“He’s been down here forty years?” Adrian asked.

Terry chuckled and looked up at Artus. “You wanna tell ‘em, or should I?” he asked. Artus groaned, a sound that reminded me of a lion’s grumble after a heavy meal. He turned away and walked back toward his bed at the back of the cell, apparently finished with the introductions. Terry continued, “Artus has been with us for a very, very long time. Longer than any of us can imagine.”

Adrian and I looked from Artus back to Terry now. We shared the same look of confusion, but Adrian looked worried. He was afraid. I’m not sure if it was a fear of what Terry was about to tell us, or of the prisoner himself, but I watched as Adrian swallowed hard and trembled like he was in the winter woods without a coat. Warden Boulanger stood back and allowed Terry to explain.

“You see, Artus here was caught in the act, murdering a lowly housewife on her way home one night. He was found covered in the poor woman’s blood and flesh, head to toe - so much that it was soakin’ his damn shoes.”

The warden rolled her eyes, “You don’t have to paint a damn picture for us, Terry, just tell them-“

“Either way, they arrested him on the spot. He was tried, convicted, sentenced to life in prison. No parole. All very routine for such a vicious murder.

Problem was, years went by – decades – but the bastard wouldn’t die. Much to everyone’s surprise, he wouldn’t even age. He served fifty years. He served seventy. Ninety.”

My eyes drifted back to the cell. Artus paced from corner to corner and glanced over his shoulder. I felt a chill in my spine whenever we made eye contact. I clenched my jaw and tightened my fists to hide it from him.

Terry continued, “He’d been through five wardens, hundreds a’ guards. He’d attacked other prisoners inside. Started riots. At one point, he assembled a big group of followers – maybe a hundred other inmates doin’ his bidding. But after another fifty years went by, they all died off.”

“How is that possible?” I asked, my voice trembling. I believed every word of the story. The basement, the secrecy, the strangeness of this inmate - it all began to make a terrifying kind of sense.

Warden Boulanger chimed in, “No one knew what to do with him for a very long time. It wasn’t until the third warden that they were able to formulate a plan for Mr. de Lorraine. One of his kind had never been captured before.”

“No,” Adrian muttered, almost involuntarily. His head whipped back to Artus, who sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at us. He watched us both as we absorbed the information, secretly gauging our reactions.

Terry crossed his arms, getting more serious. “His victim was found with puncture wounds in her neck. Her body was almost completely drained of blood,” the warden said. “That was in the year 1642.” Terry noted the shock on our faces, then said, “This man has been locked up for three hundred and fifty years.”

I looked back at Artus. He was still, silent. Dark eyes glued to my blue ones.

“It is imperative that you both learn rules and you stick to them without exception for as long as you’re able.”

“Why wouldn’t you just kill him?” Adrian whispered..

The warden shrugged. She’d had this discussion before: “The law is the law. A judge and jury sentenced the man to life behind bars. If we ignore that, what the hell are we all doing here?”

I shifted my gaze over to Artus again. He remained still and stoic. I could see him trying to figure me out, to catch my reaction to his existence. So, I softened my face and tried to make it feel like old news - like something I’d heard before, like something I could handle. I didn’t want him to think I was scared.

If this was my prisoner now, I couldn’t let him have anything over on me. This job has always been and will always be about power dynamics. Artus had to know that I could not be rattled.

Standing next to me, I could hear Adrian’s quick, shallow breaths. He was terrified, and it showed.

I should have known right then. I should have seen what would happen. But I didn’t yet understand the evil I had met or its surprising effect on simple men.