Entry #24.5 / 16th July 2022
Eerie. That’s probably the first word I would use to describe the Eastern State Penitentiary—very and completely eerie. The moment I stepped onto the tour officially, onto the prison grounds, I was hit immediately with energies of horror and sadness. It was very clear that this was not a happy place to be once upon a time.
But as the audio clips rang in my ears, and I took photos and videos on my phone, a two-word sentence also sprang forward.
Hauntingly beautiful.
The spirits that roamed this prison were there with me, with every tourist, walking the cell blocks. But they weren’t there to frighten us, they just wanted to be acknowledged. And I think, with the amounts of stories of different prison inmates, of the conditions that they lived and died in, maybe those spirits felt somewhat peaceful for the fact that history was remembered.
Though, there were three parts of the tour that shook me to the core.
The first (and one we will return to) was Cell Block 7. It was an area that didn’t seem real. It was an undoubtedly beautiful sight that was hammered with tragedy, and it was the only cell block that allowed you to use the stairs and see it at a different and higher angle.
I couldn’t stay up there any longer than a minute.
The view… It shook something in me. Something that I couldn’t put my finger on until much later in the tour.
The second was a story – a girl. Her name was Mary Ash. She was just eleven years old when she was sentenced to four years at the Eastern State Penitentiary for arson, and later died at possibly the age of thirteen due to tuberculosis. And hearing the audio guide’s voice speak about her with such passion, such sympathy as I stared at her photo… It was heartbreaking to know that someone so young, who had all of that life to give to the world still, had their last memory being locked away in such conditions that caused her death.
The third is the most important one. It leads me back to the first one.
Going rogue from the main tour and listening to many other audio clips around the prison, I stumbled upon (quite literally) a cut-off cell block that looked… very intimidating. It was dark, with only peeks of daylight shining through that added to its overall creepiness.
Going up close to the bars, I noticed an information board with the audio guides’ number 26 on it.
Reaching for the audio guide device, I typed in the number and pressed play.
“Hi,” the audio voice began. “I’m actor Steve Buscemi.” I wasn’t too surprised, as he was the one who spoke about Cell Block 7. “Is this place haunted? Who knows? Some visitors have said that they ‘sensed something’ while visiting the Eastern State.”
That’s one way of describing it.
Then, a different voice came onto the audio. “My name is Charles Adams. I wrote a book, Philadelphia Ghost Stories.”
Steve then came back. “Mr. Adams is not related to the famous cartoonist who created the Addams Family, but they share an affection for macabre.”
“I had heard the standard ghost stories, about shadowy figures darting from cell to cell and all the ‘whooo’ stories.”
Okay, I’ve had a totally different experience with the spirits here than everyone else.
“Nothing profound until I met a locksmith. He was removing about a hundred forty-two old lock from the door of an abandoned cell, and he encountered what he described as an incredible and powerful energy.” My eyes focused on the cell block before me as my imagination let the scene play out before me of the locksmith doing his job. “This person was genuinely frightened by what had happened to him. He could not understand it, and therefore, I believe that what he told me was hundred percent the truth.”
“What we know is that enormous suffering occurred behind these walls for over hundred forty years.” Steve then stated, my mind letting the words take over as my eyes stayed peeled to the abandoned cell block. “Men and women died here. And the building itself is certainly ‘haunting’ if not haunted.”
“In my opinion,” Charles’ voice became another echo in the cell. “There’s not one ghost, not three ghosts, it’s a stew of souls, restless spirits that swirl for eternity here at Eastern State Penitentiary.”
“Maybe you don’t believe in ghosts.” Steve Buscemi voice trailed on, “But take a look around. If ghosts exist anywhere, they must be here.”
I couldn’t pinpoint for you where the epiphany came from. Was it something in the words that either Charles Adams and/or Steve Buscemi spoke? Was it the creepiness of the abandoned cell block I stood in front of? Or a weird combination of both?
Whatever it was, something clicked in me and quickly, I found myself hurrying back into the main attractions of prison.
Cell Block 7.
Any resistance I felt going back in, going back up those stairs, was tossed to the side as I forced myself up those stairs. My breathing was heavy, goosebumps rose all over, and the echoes of doors from other rooms were like tiny pins in this isolated block.
Unlike the last time I stood on top of this balcony, I was the only one present in this cell block.
Hands clasped on the balcony rail, I looked out to the cell block, seeing and feeling.
Time rewinds itself before my eyes. Seeing many people, many prisoners, going about their lives. Men. Women. Children – like Mary Ash. Going about surviving. Trying to get through the day that would give them the added strength to get by tomorrow. There would be deals going on with prison guards, secretive talks between prisoners, and physical brawls that the prison guards would have no choice but to intervene.
I could see it all – from the view and height that I held.
The view and height terrified me most of all.
I can’t say for sure if this balcony platform was always here or if it was put up when the prison became a public museum. But while it gave a more perspective and beauty view, it was also psychologically intense.
How many people stood where I had when the prison was a prison? How many powerful prisoners stood here, keeping an eye on everything? Watching all the corrupt guards, the secretive talks, and the bloody altercations. How more powerful did it make them feel? How much control must they have felt in a place that tries to strip them of that very control?
All of that was one sole objective – to survive.
That must be exhausting.
Is this what every bad person – abuser, murderer, etc – feels that they must do? To know what everyone is doing, talking about, and even thinking? To micromanage everything so you can better know what you can use for your own survival? So, you know what you can use against those you feel are a threat?
Joy. I concluded sorrowfully. Is this… Is Cell Block 7 her mind?
I thought of every interaction with Joy, every memory… There was always a sharpness to her eyes. How she would walk into a room, whether crowded or empty, and calculate every aspect. See every present interaction and hold that against previous interactions. To see every expression and interpret them to previous interpretations of those similar facial expressions. Hear one phrase and how its tone holds it and come up to a million conclusions of what it meant.
And that was her prison.
Her mind, along with many horrible people, was Cell Block 7. A constant alertness, a constant calculation, a constant survival.
Survival isn’t necessarily a bad thing. When it comes to actual prisons, it’s pretty much the only and best thing you can do.
But when that survival is based on deep-rooted insecurity, overwhelming distrust and the need for complete control, that’s when survival instincts twists into something ugly. It makes a person turn into an abuser, murderer, etc.
It makes ordinary people turn into ghosts controlled by their twisted survival.
Is… I wiped away the few tears that escaped my eyes. Is this me?
The camp, the other internationals…
Forearms now resting on the rail, I bent down slightly as a wave of nausea flowed through me. My chest constricting as the world felt light. Ready to break apart and end everything.
Oh god, I am turning into the Joy 2.0?