Old Montana Territorial Prison, Deer Lodge, Montana
Unmanned stone turrets stood like silent sentries at each corner of the stone barrier that encircled the prison walls. Foreboding formidable buildings bore the battle scars of shattered bricks that threatened to fall to the ground. Remnants of the tails of sheets tied to prison bars hung from windows. Twisted wires with sharp barbs were wound around each other forming a tangled lethal web along the tops of fences and stone walls. An uneasiness crept from the dark recesses. Shadows’ bony fingers motioned for us as we walked inside. Just being behind thick doors and iron gates brought a sense of claustrophobia and uneasiness. Even though windows lined the outer walls of the large rooms, only a pinpoint of light seemed to penetrate the oppressive darkness. Every foot fall and whisper echoed from cold concrete floors and stony bare walls. Stepping into the women’s quarters sent a chill through my body. Relics inside the cells were reminders of those who once were locked within those stark walls. The unspeakable crimes of the women who resided there were rarely matched by any of the men who lived beyond in the other quarters.
inside the women’s quarters
The walls began to close in around me. The hallways seemed to narrow and pulse as we went further into the heart of the prison. Nothing was able to penetrate the thick stagnant stifling air that got heavier by the minute. Open cell doors gave evidence of those who were once housed behind locked bars. There was a presence of restless invisible eyes of ghosts lingering, staring from dark corners or peering from under empty cots. Signs along the way recounted the horrific crimes of many of the inhabitants. It’s no wonder the restlessness of evil lurked there in the black retreats.
Mel Jowell lived here once, twice, three, four times. He killed Deputy Sheriff Joseph Brannin in 1911 on the dusty streets of Melville, Montana. Horse stealing, thievery, prison breaks, murder and evading capture were among other offenses. He skirted the law, managed to escape and lived the remainder of his days outside prison bars. I cannot say if he was tormented by ghosts of his past or if his soul found peace in life and in death.
Stepping into the prison yard, a rush of air filled my lungs. The day was bright with blue sky and fluffy white clouds. A soft breeze was interrupted with whispers that seemed to echo within the prison yard. Reminders of evil lurked in the shadows that moved along the ground. I turned and walked out the stone gate breaking free of the oppression that clung to me and tried to hold me captive. The breeze chased away the stagnant air. The light of day grew brighter as we drove away.