The Spring Break Interview

Lucy Stanfield first contacted me in September of 2015. She said she was an investigative journalist and she wanted an interview with me about the events of March 2014. That spring break is one that I would’ve rather forgotten. It’s what landed me here in the first place. Anyway, I refused the interview at first, but then she kept sending me letters, practically begging me to reconsider. Every Saturday at exactly 12:00 PM, another letter would come. I eventually gave into her constant pestering. We scheduled the interview for December 25th, 2015 at 6:30 PM. I had nothing else planned that day, though it was Christmas.

Lucy walked into my room at exactly that time without warning. Not even bothering to knock. I didn’t know that it was her, so I freaked out a little bit. I yelled something along the lines of “there’s an intruder in my room!” But she showed me her identification so I would stop freaking out. It worked, but I still wasn’t in the best mood. She had jet black hair and blue-grey eyes. She wore a black suit jacket, a white button-up shirt, a red tie and black slacks. She wore too much makeup. I’m not sure about how she was able to get through the lock, but she said that the lady at the front desk gave her the key. She turned the chair from my desk so it was facing me and sat down, crossing one leg over the other, notepad and pen in hand. We then commenced with the interview.

“So when exactly did this event happen?” She asked.

“I was twenty at the time, in my junior year at Penn State. Spring break was coming up quick, and with it, my twenty-first birthday.” I sat on my bed and sighed, not exactly thrilled that I had to recount my story again. I hated telling this to people, having done it so many times before.

“I get that it’s hard for you to try putting what happened into words, but I need your take on the event. How will you be able to get out of here otherwise?” She said that with seemingly genuine understanding and concern. Nodding, I continued.

“Like I was saying, it happened over spring break. My friends all wanted to go to Miami or something to get shit-faced and hungover all week, but I wanted to go to Ireland and see Station Island. I’ve always been curious about the paranormal, and something I saw online said there was a gate to purgatory in a cave there. My friends were reluctant at first, but they eventually came around.” I cringed at the thought of how I convinced them to do something so stupid. “Looking back on it now, we should’ve just gone to Miami…”

“Let’s stay on track, shall we?” Lucy interrupted, smiling. “Where exactly was this cave on Station Island? If I’m not mistaken, it’s near a church supposedly built by Saint Patrick and his followers.”

“It was in the basement of the church. It was in a room that was boarded off with a sign that said ‘KEEP OUT OR BE DAMNED TO ETERNAL SUFFERING’. Of course, we didn’t listen. One of my friends grabbed a broom, lodged it in between the planks and pulled, able to snap the boards after the third pull.” I took a deep breath. “What we saw in there was horrifying enough that I still have nightmares…”

“What exactly did you see?”

“Hell. Demons crawling up from this pit in the ground. A burning inferno flaring from that same pit. It was so quick that it wasn’t until after three of my friends were nothing more than mangled corpses, clawed to death and covered in burns that I realized how bad we fucked up…” I could feel tears start to show in my eyes. The images flooded back into my head, causing me to feel my anxiety rising full throttle.

“Calm down. I only have two more questions.” Reluctantly, I nodded, taking deep breaths and rubbing my hands together, a few coping strategies that I find to work. I wanted her out. I wanted her to leave me alone, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that… “Okay. What did these ‘demons’ look like?” There was faint disbelief in her voice when she said the word “demons.” I ignored her tone

“They didn’t look like demons do in the movies. Their skins ranged from pitch black to stark white. Hunched over and primal, but if they stood up straight, they’d have to be at least eight or nine feet tall. Their hands weren’t even hands. They were more like stumps with… with what looked like bones spiking out from them. Sharp bones. Like claws. These monsters were thin to the point you could see the bones jutting out beneath the flesh.” I could feel the anxiety rising up again. These creatures I was describing still haunt my dreams. Shuddering, I took a few deep breaths. I didn’t like this woman for bringing back these memories…

“Okay. Final question.” Lucy looked at me seriously and cynically, completely discarding her kind and friendly facade. “Did these demons kill your friends, or did you?” I opened my mouth to scream at her, but she cut me off. “The reason I ask this is because all of the evidence at the scene of the murders points to you as the one who murdered those three men and women. How do you think you ended up here in the first place? The psychiatric ward of a maximum security prison is no place for an innocent man.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about…” My voice wavered.

“I’ve read everything there is to know about you. You’re a twenty-two year old former college student who has a very selective memory. You suffer from frequent night terrors and hallucinations. Your story changes every time you tell it. One account says that you and your friends went to Paris for spring break of 2014 to explore the catacombs. Another says that you and your friends went to Hellam Township, Pennsylvania to look for the Seven Gates to Hell. But this one you just told me is new.” I was rendered speechless by all of her nonsensical comments that she labeled as “facts.”

“I know you’re bullshitting me. I mean, demons? Are you kidding me? The bodies were found in your Penn State dorm room and you were sitting at your desk flipping through a textbook as if the mutilated corpses of your girlfriend and two best friends weren’t right next to you--” At this point, I’d heard enough. I lunged at her, wrapping my hands around her throat. I don’t remember much after that. I only remember sitting down, taking the notepad and pen from beside Lucy Stanfield’s dead body, and then starting to write.

I don’t believe that I killed my friends. But I definitely killed the bitch in the suit. I wasn’t guilty before, but I sure am now.