The warden and his family used to occupy the top floor of this section, and supposedly the ghost of some broad is sometimes spotted in one of the windows. (OUR GUIDE HERSELF HAS EVEN SEEN IT, WHAAAAT.)
For only being the beginning of November, it sure was fucking nipply up in that pen. I never knew this, though it seems pretty obvious, but there was no heat or A/C for the inmates in this prison. They roasted like pigs in their tiny cells during the summer and turned into frozen predator pops in the winter. However, a new cafeteria was built shortly before the prison closed for good. It was part of a deal that the Governor struck with the inmates during the last hostage-situation riot that took place there in the 80s: the new cafeteria would be the only room in the prison with heat and air conditioning. Danny Lehman, president of the bike gang the Avengers and the inmate responsible for striking the deal, was murdered in the North Hall by the Aryan Nation before ever getting to see his cafeteria completed.
Our guide talked about Danny Lehman A LOT. I think she had a crush on him.
(I looked up his picture. He was pretty OK looking.)
The new cafeteria has some pretty sweet paintings upon its cinder blocked walls. They were all painted by the same inmate, who was color blind (shout out to my color-stupid brother!) so he had another inmate mix the paint for him and included his name on the paintings, too. Sounds kind of un-prisonly to me.
Who knew jail birds could be fair.
The guide let us explore the kitchen area without her, so that tells me either there is nothing to note in that area, or the paranormal perils are so plentiful that the guides are like, “Y’all go on ahead and poke around in there if you want while I stand out here close to the exit.”
Anyone who knows me knows that I have this condition where I need to write my name everywhere, on everything, all of the time. Restaurant place mats. Scratch paper at work. In Henry’s underwear. On sidewalks in chalk. Under the mattresses of the people I stalk. I think it’s called megalomania. Solipsism. Egocentrism.
Maybe a pretty perfume of all three, with notes of narcissism.
You best believe I dirtied my finger in that prison grit to leave behind my name.
If I was a tattoo artist, I’d sign my name to everyone’s motherfucking skin.
Bitch, try and stop me.
View of the yard through the cafeteria window. Apparently, nothing of note ever happened in the new cafeteria, but they had emergency tear gas running up through the rafters just in case shit got cray.
Tried to get Chooch to eat this.
We got to check out the yard after poking around the cafeteria.
All the way back in that corner was a tiny bullpen set up for the inmates who were in protective custody, mostly murderers and rapists of children.
Attention: Parents of Young Kids! If you’re not ready to broach such heavy topics, perhaps a tour of a penitentiary can wait a few more years.
The words “rape” and “rapist” were slung around so much during this tour that it’s a fucking miracle Chooch didn’t raise his hand and ask what the fuck it means.
Hopefully this doesn’t mean he already knows.
The blue building is where some of the inmates got to make $15 a month making license plates. Some of them would smuggle parts of the machines out, like tiny screws and stuff, and then throw them over the fence at the maximum security inmates out in the bullpen playing basketball with each others heads. Then those guys would do ungodly things to be able to sneak their newly acquired weapon-making contraband past the guards. Some would even cut their arms and slip this shit in there, oh my fucking god.
But I guess at that point in your life, what’s a little prick, right?
Ninety-four men were executed in Moundsville. Eighty-five of those were hanged from 1899-1949, and the other nine were electrocuted after one of the inmates constructed an electric chair for the prison. (He then had to be put in protective custody. Duh.)
Hangings were viewed by a public bleacher section until 1931, when the rope decapitated its victim. Can you imagine dressing little Susie in her Sunday’s best and sitting on bleachers eating Cracker Jacks while some fucker was lynched in front of you?
Actually, I kind of can.
And that fucker is Henry.