There’s a death row inmate who we’ve executed over a dozen times. He won’t stay dead.
We killed Joseph Glass for the first time on August 18th, 1999.
I knew he was a strange case since day one. Never seen a guy so happy to die before. It was like we were doing him a favor. He refused the automatic appeal. He refused to be seen by a chaplain. He just wanted it over with. It had only taken a little over a year, and it was already time for him to make his appointment with God.
He freaked me out, just passing by his cell. He was like our very own Hannibal Lector, the way he just stood there in the back of his cell like he’d been waiting for you. The lights always burned out in any cell he was in, and maintenance had gotten tired of fixing them. Not that he seemed to mind in the slightest. The darkness seemed to swallow his top half, and all I could see were the whites of his beady little eyes poking out of all that black.
Billy drummed his baton against the bars. “Up and at ‘em, cowpoke,” he called in that mocking tone. “Time finally come for you to pay what you owe, you sick son of a—”
“Billy.” Warden Taft silenced him with a word. “If you can’t act like a professional, you’re going to have to sit this one out.”
Billy paused… and licked his chapped lips. “Naw,” he muttered. “This a show I can’t miss.”
Glass seemed to tick Billy off more than any prisoner before him. He liked ‘em to at least pretend to feel sorry for what they’ve done, or act scared of what’s coming to ‘em. This one didn’t even have the common decency to shed a tear. He was as stone-faced as a statue, even while being marched to the chair. Billy liked to joke sometimes that we ought to take the guy out back with some car batteries and really put the fear of God into him, get him to cut out that stoic act. I think he was only half-joking.
After what this guy did to those girls… well, Billy has a daughter, so I guess it struck a chord.
We all watched him fry. The warden, his closest men. The thin-faced man representing the Commissioner of Corrections. The prison physician. The families of those poor girls. It couldn’t have gone more by the book. Only oddity I’d noticed at the time was that the stench of death never quite left the clothes I’d worn that day.
And then the next morning, we came into work to see the whites of those beady little eyes staring at us from the darkness again. “Good morning, sirs,” he said, just as he did every morning, in that airy, hoarse little voice.
I’ll admit it. I dropped everything I was carrying, stumbled back, stammered like a confused child. Hell, I almost screamed. “You… you’re not… y-you’re supposed to be…”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.” He leaned in like he was trying to stare a hole through my chest. His tone almost sounded disappointed. “You never came for me. You promised me that yesterday would be the end, sir, but you never came. I waited all night long. Why did you lie to me?”
Me and Taft looked at eachother. We both had the exact same question on our minds. If Glass was still alive… who the hell did we roll into the morgue last night?
“Jesus Christ.” Taft gagged when he pulled back the cadaver cover, stumbling away. “It’s Billy.”
I looked. I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it. And I’ll be forever haunted by the sight of my friend lying there on his back, mouth agape and cloudy eyes staring into the ceiling, open wide as if he’d spent his last moments in a state of terror.
The public never found out what happened. The cover up story was that poor Billy had been taken by cardiac arrest. Internally? It was the scandal to end all scandals. Worst case of incompetence and negligence in history, they called it. They brought the hammer down on anyone even tangentially involved. Me and Taft were out on our ears, and they would’ve prosecuted us too, but that would’ve required admitting it ever happened.
But I just could never wrap my head around it. Of those dozens of witnesses, not a single person noticed we were strapping a guard to the chair, not an inmate? It was impossible to the point of absurdity. Glass had been the man in that chair. I’d never been more certain of anything in my life.
Some months later, I noticed power flickering off all over the city one evening. It was brief, so I thought nothing of it. At least until I got a call from a familiar number the very next morning. “I understand you were one of the staff who regularly worked with one Joseph Glass. We would like to consult with you about an… evolving situation.”
“Oh?”
“At 7 PM yesterday, we attempted the execution of Joseph Glass for the second time.” There was a long pause, and when the voice returned, the professionalism had melted away, replaced with a baffled anxiety. “And, well… it, uh, it didn’t… it didn’t work.”
I blinked. “It didn’t… what?”
There came a long sigh. “Perhaps… it’d be best if you saw for yourself.”
And just like that, me and Taft had our jobs back.
Officially, Joseph Glass had been successfully executed on August 18th, 1999. Unofficially, they’d tried again six months later, just to tie up loose ends. This time, he hadn’t even had the courtesy to pretend to die. He just sat there on the chair, motionless and unaffected, while the CO who’d flipped the switch suddenly seized up and began to convulse, screaming and gnashing and wailing as electricity seared him beneath his skin, clawing at his chest until his eyes popped in his skull and rolled down his face like melted candle wax. All around him, lights flickering, machines bursting from pressure, electrical panels vomiting arcs of static. It was a mess.
The feds were crawling all over this case now, from a department I’ve never heard of. Something about investigating ‘preternatural activity’. They told me Glass was refusing to speak with anybody but the CO’s who’d once cared for him. Being walked into that interrogation room almost made me feel like I, myself, was a convict being marched to his execution.
Glass was staring at me when I walked in, like he’d been sat there, motionless, waiting for me. I expected nothing less. I took a shuddering breath as I sat across from him. I’d sat across from serial killers and psychos before and showed no hint of fear. But how could I not, now, sitting across from a man who can kill people without touching them? “Glass.”
“Officer Mendez.” His tone betrayed no emotion. “I had thought you’d abandoned me.”
I winced. “No. No, Glass, I’d just been… temporarily relieved. It’s… good to see you again. Would you like a glass of water?” I offered it to him. He didn’t even look at it. His eyes just bored into mine, relentless. “I… I’m here to ask you a few questions.”
Silence.
“Okay. Um… Glass, I need to know… how you killed Billy and Cramer.”
“I didn’t,” he replied. “It did.”
“It?”
“The thing standing behind you.”
I didn’t bother to turn around. I had enough experience with prisoners trying to trick me into looking the other way while they pulled off some half-baked escape plan. “Glass, please, let’s take this seriously,” I replied. “I’ve always treated you with respect, haven’t I? You’ve never had any problems with me.”
“Actually, I do. I have a problem with all of you.”
“Oh?”
“You here all believe that… death is a punishment.” There was the first hint of emotion I’d ever heard in his voice. “It’s not. It’s freedom — the only freedom. You promised me that gift. You promised me you’d let me die. You’ve given it to so many other prisoners, while leaving me behind. With all of your machines and your science and your knowledge… surely you can find a way, if anyone.”
My throat felt suddenly dry. I had to take a sip of the water myself, and hoped it would quell my burning nerves. “I… we’re… we’re trying our best, Glass. But you have to work with us. It may help if you told us… what, exactly, is preventing us from executing you?”
He moved for the first time. Leaning in, so slow as to be almost imperceptible. “It won’t let me die.”
And that’s when I felt a hand settle on my shoulder from behind.
Everything stopped. My lungs stopped inflating. I swear, my heart stopped beating, and my blood froze in place in my veins, and it all felt so cold. I could see the hand in the corner of my eyes, long and veiny and black. I could feel the breath on the back of my neck.
I’d once mocked the way deers froze in headlights. Now I understood. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t blink, I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even take a single breath. Even as my lungs began to cry out for air, and my vision blurred, and my thoughts melded together. All I could see was Joseph’s eyes staring into mine. Those infinite fathoms of darkness, that stygian sea that swirled and stormed and thundered in the blackness of his iris, and the eyes of things waiting a million leagues below the waters.
And I would have suffocated there, too terrified to even breathe, if those agents in black had not called off the interrogation then and come storming into the room.
Later, they showed me the tapes from the security camera. There’d been nothing behind me. Nothing placing its thin hand upon my shoulder. Nothing at all.
On May 7th, 2001, Glass was set to be executed for the third time — via hanging, or so I heard — in some government blacksite somewhere, far from prying eyes.
While it was set to happen, me and Taft were sharing glasses of scotch in his office, nominally to celebrate. Really, because we were scared. Taft always struck me as young at heart despite his years, but this was the first time the warden had ever looked truly, properly old. He watched the yard below as he had a drink. “Did I ever tell you why I chose this line of work, Mendez?”
I shook my head, and he sighed. “Back in `63, they found a woman’s body in the back seat of a burnt out car, in some state park near my neighborhood. A prostitute. One of her johns had… chopped her up. Burned all the evidence. And you know what got me, Mendez? Nobody cared. Nobody bothered to investigate. Who will notice one less hooker on the corner of 5th Avenue, right?”
“It… didn’t sit right with me. The way I see it, Mendez, every life matters. Even the ones we try and cast aside. Everybody’s got people who love them, and childhood memories, and all that. Everybody deserves justice. No matter who they were.” He set down his glass and looked me in the eyes. “So I joined the force. Got the case reopened. Found the guy. And I watched him fry. And I like to imagine she was there watching, too, as he burned.”
There was a tense moment. And then a chuckle. “Course, after that bullet to the hip in `71, I couldn’t walk the beat anymore. But I’ve been just as happy here. Watching justice be served… it makes me feel like there’s some kind of karmic order to the world. Good deeds and bad deeds get repaid in kind.”
It was clear there was something lurking beneath his words, some unspoken thesis. Eventually, with old, wrinkled, tired eyes, he said it. “I’ve thought about it, and… if Glass doesn’t die tonight, I’m finally going to retire, Mendez,” he confessed. “After what he did to those girls, what kind of… what kind of order can there be in a world, where a monster like that is just… beyond justice?”
I was shocked. Warden Taft always struck me as an unmoving fixture. What would we do without him? “He’ll die, sir,” I promised. “It’ll work this time. It has to.”
But he seemed deeply uncertain. With one last shuddering drink, he leaned forward. “His eyes.” He stared at my expression, as if desperate for me to understand, for me to know. “Those things… in his eyes. Haven’t you seen them?”
And at that moment, Taft was yanked up out of his chair.
It was so sudden, so inexplicable, I could barely register what I was witnessing. Some unseen force lifted him two or three feet above the ground, dangling him there. He choked, coughed and sputtered, desperate to gasp down air which would not come, and clawed at something around his neck which I could not see. He was hanging, I realized. And with wide, horrified eyes — the same as Billy’s had been — he silently begged me for help.
I sprang from my chair and wrapped my arms around his dangling legs. At first I tried to pull him down to the floor, but I realized it was only tightening the invisible noose around his neck. Then I tried lifting him as high as I could, which gave him some relief, but not much. Tears rolled down his face as it swelled and turned blue, and even though I could not see the noose, I could see the bruised purple skin where it had squeezed around his neck. All the while, I screamed myself hoarse. “Help! Somebody, please! Jesus Christ, we need help in here!” But nobody came.
And all of a sudden, some unseen forced seemed to sweep my feet out from under me.
I dropped like a bag of bricks, but I was so startled I maintained my grip around the warden’s legs. I fell and yanked him down with me, and his body suddenly jolted with a sickening crack.
It took me a while to manage the courage to look up at him. His neck had been stretched far too long, and his head was bent to the side at almost a 90 degree angle. Eyes wide, round and bloated tongue hanging from dry lips. And then whatever force had suspended him disappeared, and his body fell upon me while I screamed and screamed.
I came bursting from his office to find my coworkers casually chatting and working just outside. Somehow, despite all my screaming and begging while Taft was dying, none of them had heard a thing.
I took a page from Taft. I wanted out. We were dealing with something unholy here, something whose tendrils could reach any distance, and my life — who knows, maybe even my soul — was at hazard. But the agents in the sharp suits made one thing clear: if I refused to cooperate, well, I would make the perfect scapegoat for the murder of Warden Taft.
I was marched into the interrogation room to find a Joseph Glass that had abandoned all pretense of humanity. His eyes had darkened to a pure black. Or perhaps he had no eyes at all, only windows into some place of outer darkness. I was shaking like a leaf as I sat in front of him, feeling more like a prisoner than he was.
“M-m-mister… Glass.” No reply. I shuddered, trying to focus on my little piece of paper to distract myself from the blackness of his eyes. “I… I-I have some… questions I’m supposed to ask you. Is… is that okay?”
Silence. I take a deep breath. “How… old are you, Glass?” I thought it was just one of those basic questions. Conversation starters, really. I couldn’t have prepared myself for his answer.
“I am old, child.” His voice was nothing like I remembered. It was deep and low and rumbling, like there were multiple people speaking in unison, and all were equally ancient. “Older than you could possibly know. Older than this nation, and older even than the empire that once bore it.”
I had to fight the basic animal instinct to flee. Focus on the questions, I thought. “Why did you do… what you did to those girls?”
“Just so I could feel something again,” he whispered. “Anything.”
“Did you not feel the slightest bit of… guilt? Remorse?”
“You ask that… of me? Me, who has watched empires rise and fall?” He almost sounded amused. “Does time feel remorse? For time has killed far more than I. But mankind is like the hydra. All I’ve killed will be replaced by, essentially, identical stock, and in greater numbers. And then they will die and be replaced. And so the cycle will continue forever.”
“Did you expect me to pity them for being given the death I, myself, covet? Only the dead are given leave of the cycle. It is a blessing.” And suddenly, he stood from his chair, as if he’d never been restrained at all. “A blessing you promised me, Officer Mendes.”
I stared up at him in disbelief. “What — how did you —“ But I couldn’t even stammer a sentence out before he was upon me, crawling over the table with the eerie grace of a spider.
These were no longer the imperceptible hints of emotions I’d come to expect. It was like a switch had been flipped. Tears streamed down his cheeks, snarling with genuine rage, hurt, betrayal. And beneath those black seas in his eyes, all the things that haunted the fathoms below were rising to the surface. “You owe me a death. Make good on your word. Pay your debt.”
I cried out and recoiled from his every touch with disgust, but he was stronger than he looked. I couldn’t worm my way out of his impossible grip. “I won’t! Get off of me, you sick bastard!”
“Do it! Pay me what you owe!” It was like a thousand different voices screaming in my ear. Straining and weeping, I locked my hands around his neck and pressed my thumbs against his throat, trying to strangle him. But instead, I could just feel that grip upon my own neck, squeezing the life out of myself as my lungs burned for air. Yet I kept pressing harder and harder, as if hoping I might somehow break through whatever unholy force was protecting him.
And then those terrible hands grasped my shoulders again, and I was paralyzed by a terror that could be called nothing but ancient and primal. Like the thing standing behind me was the same force that had kept my ancestors huddled terrified in their caves a hundred thousand years ago, and every one of those voices was crying out to me through my very blood. And it pulled me from my chair, threw me as though I were weightless… and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the infirmary.
Once more, none of this was captured on the security camera. In the footage, I just enter the room and have a seat with strange, almost robotic movements. And then the both us just sit there, staring at eachother, without speaking, without moving, without blinking. For an hour.
After this, Joseph Glass entered a catatonic state, and from then on refused to converse with even me. Now that my usefulness had ended, the agents discarded me like yesterday’s trash. Don’t even seem to care if I tell anybody. Who would believe me?
I thought I’d gotten lucky. That my nightmare was over. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Go sorting through any public records, and you won’t find a single mention of the name Joseph Glass. They’ve squirreled him away in that off-the-books blacksite and scrubbed away every other trace of him. I’d say he’d been unpersoned, if indeed he could ever be called a person at all. But they’re still trying every execution method in the book. I don’t know quite why. Maybe it’s for research. I’m sure the US military would love to find the secret to making its men as unkillable as Glass. And besides, they’re not the ones who have to deal with the consequences.
On June 3rd, 2005, they tried a firing squad. I know this because me and my wife were out on our second honeymoon, slow dancing by the lake at night to our favorite song, when I felt a wetness against my chest. I looked down to see her eyes as gray and dull as foggy glass, and her chest shredded to swiss cheese by rounds that made no sound.
On December 23rd, 2012, they tried lethal injection. That was the day they found my son’s car wrapped around a tree, and baffled coroners discovered that he was dead before the accident even occurred, his bloodstream polluted with Pavulon and potassium chloride.
It’s been years since I’ve isolated myself from everyone I knew, hermiting away in this cabin out in the middle of nowhere, and yet the stench of death still follows me. Just a couple years ago, I found a news report mentioning my nephew. Apparently, he’d been found completely exsanguinated, his veins emptied utterly despite no signs of a struggle. God knows what kind of arcane methods of execution they’re trying by now.
He’s not going to let me walk away from this. Not while I still owe him a debt.
But I’ve been doing some research, too. Research into those untold legions of things I witnessed staring up from that blackened sea in Glass’s eyes. I’ve learned things men were not meant to know. Practiced rites, assembled tools, ingredients. And I think I know where they’re keeping him. Even though they blindfolded me, I counted the second between every turn on our way to the blacksite, and I’ve since spent weeks watching the place, cataloging every entry point.
Maybe I’m slipping into madness. Or maybe I’ve truly found the way to put an end to the horror. To finally give this monster the justice that Taft would have wanted for him. Joseph Glass had been right about one, single thing: I have to pay what I owe.
Even if it kills me.
