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The Prison Hostel

Michael Adams encounters a long dead former inmate.

By Nancy McLay Published 3 years ago 4 min read
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Eugene Larment - last man hanged in Ottawa

My flight has landed in Ottawa. I have a hastily organized business meeting here tomorrow afternoon. While I am still in the airport I use Google on my cell phone to find a place to stay for tonight. Discovering a business listing that interests me, I excitedly exclaim out loud, “Oh this place looks cool!” I see that I can sleep in an authentic jail cell at a hostel that has been converted from a prison! It was built over one hundred and fifty years ago. Very intrigued I call to reserve my accommodation for this evening. I state my name, “Michael Adams,” to the male voice taking my reservation.

I hail a taxicab and gratefully climb into it, enjoying the coolness of its air conditioning, on this beautiful, summer evening. Arriving at the prison hostel I mutter under my breath, “This looks ominous.” The cab driver hears me. He looks at me concerned, while enthusiastically nodding in agreement.

I press the doorbell on the heavy front door of the hostel. A young man opens the door and motions me inside. I think that the ventilation must be very poor here, as the odors of dampness, mustiness and old furniture immediately permeate my nostrils. A sudden foreboding feeling washes over me but I disregard it. The young man informs me, “You will be staying in the former death row section, on the top floor.” I wonder if I have booked the last cell in the place for him to put me there. Unbeknownst to me, I am in fact the only live inmate here this evening.

Climbing the stairs to my designated cell I feel nauseous. “The building’s heat and humidity are giving me a migraine headache,” I advise myself. Pushing aside the heavy, steel barred gate of my cell I hesitantly step inside. I observe the simple bed taking up most of the room. I see a small plaque hanging on one wall. I drop my overnight bag on the cold, cement floor and step toward the plaque. The name Eugene Larment is displayed on it, documented as the last death row prisoner incarcerated in this cell. He was hung at the gallows here in 1946 at the age of twenty four. I lower myself onto the bed. My head is throbbing now. I shield my eyes with my hands from the low light of the single light bulb hanging overhead. I fall asleep quickly.

I wake up several hours later in complete darkness. I need to use the washroom but I don’t know where it is. Not fully awake I don’t think to grab my cellphone and use its flashlight feature. Instead I feel all along the wall with my hands, one after the other, to the gate. I venture out of my cell. I decide the washroom must be to the right. I turn right. I slowly shuffle down the hall but can’t locate the washroom. I come to the end of the hall. As I turn around to go back I chastise myself, “Darn it, I should have gone left!”

I jump, startled. Directly in front of me, is the man that I talked with when I arrived at the hostel. Recovering from my startled state I notice he doesn’t look quite right to me. I try through my sleepiness to process exactly what is odd about him. I get the sense that he is isn’t solid, more like an apparition. Cockily, I reach out to him thinking that if I casually touch his shoulder I can tell if he is really there. As I reach out to him I ask him casually, “Oh hey, can you tell me where the washroom is?” My hand passes right through him!

I am freaking out now. He says to me, “My name is Eugene Larment.” I bristle at the name. That is the name on the plaque in my cell! He continues, “I did not shoot the police officer. You must avenge my wrongful death!”

Terrified I run right through the man. Despite the complete darkness I find my cell again. I lunge into the bed and pull the meager blanket up over my head.

I am awakened from my sleep by the sound of the doorbell. I can hear voices down in the administration area where I first came into the building. I can make out the conversation fairly well. It is a young couple asking an older, female clerk about accommodation for this evening. I still need to use the washroom but I don’t know where it is. I sit up. There is low light from the single light bulb hanging overhead. I step towards the gate and venture out of my cell. I turn right to go to the washroom. I find it right away and complete my business there. I return to my cell and collect my overnight bag. I hope they have coffee here.

I go down the stairs and immediately see the older, female clerk. She smiles at me broadly and says, “Good morning Sir. Did you sleep well?” The events of last night come rushing back to me but I do not know if they really happened or if they were a dream. I don’t answer the lady’s question but I say to her, “Good Morning. Do you know where I might find the young man that checked me in yesterday?” The lady looks squarely at me and says, “We don’t have any young men on staff here that would have checked you in, Sir.” She sounds sincere but I think I see a twinkle in her eyes. She knows what I saw last night and it is not up for discussion apparently. I decide to go for coffee elsewhere. I check out of the hostel.

I hail a taxicab and gratefully climb into it, enjoying the coolness of its air conditioning, on this beautiful summer day.

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About the Creator

Nancy McLay

I enjoy writing. I am an ESL tutor and I am currently taking college courses to obtain a degree in digital marketing and social media management.

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