Workman of Walpole:A Paranormal Experience

by

Brian Knippers

MCI ( Massachusetts Correctional Institution) Cedar Junction is referred to by the prison population as Walpole. The M-DOC changed the prison’s name after it became notorious — for all the wrong reasons — back in the 70’s, 80’s & 90’s. We’re talking a lot-lot-lot of violence. In the mid-eighties Walpole made national headlines for being the deadliest prison per capita in the United States. I don’t have the exact statistics but there were around 16 murders at Walpole in one year. You may say, “Well, that’s not a lot of murders for a prison?” But, consider the entire population of Walpole at that time numbered between 500 to 700 prisoners.

I was taken to Walpole on January 2nd, 2010. I’ll never forget driving into the prison. The prison van drove up to this 25 foot rusted metal wall. I sat in the back of the van staring at this massive metal wall thinking what the fuck has my life become? It was raining at the time and the rust looked like blood dripping onto the ground. You wanna’ talk about an intimidating way to enter a maximum security prison. Walpole makes you feel small, as if the prison’s tired of your shit because it’s seen & heard it all before. Just driving past the wall into the compound feels like a warning, like you’re being put on notice. There should be a sign that reads, “Watch your ass and you might make it out alive.”

I wouldn’t call myself sensitive, but I have ‘sensitive moments’. When I’m relaxed I go into a trance like state. I’ve seen glimpses of the future. This happens when I’m exhausted, or just after I’ve fallen asleep. I don’t see names or dates, I don’t see the past or the present, I only see the future. Sometimes it’s my future, or, it can be the future of someone I’m close to, but I’m always part of that future. I’ve told people, in detail, what was going to happen before it did. Once in a while, I’ll see something unfolding in front of me — like a vision — and realize I’m currently experiencing that moment. Kinda’ like déjà vu but with more detail. I don’t talk about this with other people. It’s not something I brag about.

Although I’ve never seen a ghost I’ve sensed their presence. In my 45 years on this earth I’ve had direct encounters with ghosts a handful of times. Once, my mother and I, encountered a spirit in an old house we lived in back in the seventies. The house was extremely haunted and I think anyone could’ve had a paranormal experience there. I don’t consider this a unique experience. I had a couple other random encounters that didn’t amount to much more than contact with ghosts. Random happenings that along with my sixth sense I knew to be otherworldly. At Walpole, however, I had a truly horrifying experience. The kind of traumatic experience that haunts you through all the days of your life.

I’d got into some trouble a few weeks after arriving at Walpole. Due to a disciplinary infraction I was moved from Unit 8 — on the Max End — to the Orientation Unit, or, OU.

OU is a jumble of characters. Inmates coming out of DDU, the Department Disciplinary Unit, move through Ten Block and then end up in OU. DDU is a lockdown unit for inmates who’ve committed serious acts of violence against staff, or other inmates. Ten Block’s the Segregation unit at Walpole. Inmates coming out of Ten Block were lugged for some kind of bullshit, whether it was fighting, flooding out their cells, yelling at a screw or just acting up. Then you’ve got random prisoners like me who end up in OU due to a stupid ticket, or enemy issues. Basically, some of the toughest, most violent, and devious inmates end up in OU. These are the big sharks who eat the little sharks.

But then, on the other end of the spectrum, OU hosts a swath of protective custody inmates who are serving time for child rape, aggravated rape, murdering a child, domestic assault, etc. As you can imagine, there’s almost constant violence in the Orientation Unit due to housing these two very different groups of offenders together. Why the unit’s set up this way, God only knows. Inmates call it a punishing ground for skinners (rapists). The block itself is known as a sort of PC block (protective custody), but a lot of hardened prisoners (20 foot Mako’s) end up there and as you can imagine, shit jumps off all the time.

This was the hell I was inadvertently tossed into. Walpole’s an old, broken down, drafty, noisy, violent, awful place. A lot of inmates like Walpole but I think it sucks something horrible. I pray I never have to go back there. The halls smell like copper and cheap industrial chemicals. Johnny DeSalvo, The Boston Strangler, was murdered in the Health Services Unit at Walpole. Countless murders and suicides have taken place all over the prison, even in the units that were built more recently.

The blocks, yard, chow hall, gym, wood shop, library and corridors in between have all seen acts of violence beyond most people’s wildest imagination. Homemade shiv’s are everywhere. Whether they’re cut metal that’s been sharpened, carved wood, or ground down plexy glass, these, “hammers,” are responsible for the bloodiest assaults. At Walpole, if you’re a rat, skinner, gang banger, or you owe crazy drug money, you’re a huge target. That’s how it was back in the day, and that’s how it still is today. Imagine the frustration of a man serving a 20 year sentence who’s convicted of killing another inmate six months before he wraps up (wraps a 20 year bid)! That guy will never see the light of day because he killed an inmate with 180 days to wrap. Now he’s angry so he goes on to kill over and over again because he feels he has nothing to lose. Well, this is an actual inmate and back in the 70’s they called him, “The Butcher of Walpole.” Is that the kind of ghost you want to bump into alone in your cell in the middle of the night? Well, that’s the ghost I met in OU. The scary kind with murder on his mind. That’s the kind if ghost that keeps me up at night.

Well, that’s not exactly who I bumped into. I didn’t know the ghost’s name, or history. I still don’t, for sure, but I’ve got a good guess. One thing is for sure though, I ran into one of the angriest, most violent, venomous spirits you could ever imagine. If you made it this far in the story, do yourself a favor and don’t read the rest. Especially if scary stories keep you up at night. You might not be able to sleep for a couple days and don’t want you to say I didn’t warn ya’.

I was a Level-A escape risk and I had to move cells every 30 days. The heating system in OU was broken and it was freezing in those concrete cubes. It was so cold that I used to sleep in my thermal underwear, sweatsuit, two pairs of winter socks and a winter hat. Even with all these clothes on I still slept under three wooly mammoth blankets — what we call state issue blankets — and wrapped two towels around my head. Yes, it was that cold.

I was in Walpole for 5 months. It was the beginning of February when I moved into a cell with a cracked window and a terrible draft. The cell was located on the low side about halfway down the top tier. OU only has two levels. We call the cells on the right hand side the low side because the cells have low numbers. Cell #1 through Cell #30 is the low side.. I don’t remember exactly how many cells there were in OU.

But it was definitely early February when I first heard the footsteps. Every night correctional officers make rounds on the top of the hour. Sometimes, they make an extra round on the half hour too. They quickly flash their torch in your window to make sure you haven’t hung it up. They’re also check to make sure there’s not a pool of blood on the floor that looks like a couple quarts of motor oil. Once they confirm you’re alive, they move onto the next cell. You get used to being in a fish tank. Having people watch you all the time. After a while these brief flashes of light don’t even bother you. You stop acknowledging the cops as they become part of your nightly routine. The cops try to be respectful. For example, they wear soft rubber souled boots so they don’t wake you up every time they do a round.

One night at Walpole, in Unit OU, I’d just shut off the light and started to wrap my head in towels when I heard, “thump-thump-thump-thump,” coming down the tier. Back then I’d read til’ 2 o’clock, sometimes 3 o’clock in the morning. It’s quieter in the unit late at night.

The sound coming down the tier reminded me of someone wearing hobnail boots. I heard the, “thump-thump-thump,” coming closer and then it stopped right outside my door. When someone heavy — a two hundred pound plus man — walks down the top tier there’s a kinetic energy that you feel lying in your bunk. The entire tier moves a little. These structures are built with concrete and rebar. The beds are steel slabs bolted to the wall.

As I’m lying there I picture the correctional officer standing in front of my cell door. If the cops have something to tell you this is how they do it. They’ll stand in front of your door, knock, and then tell you your going on a hospital trip, or to court, the next day. I got up out of bed — freezing my junk off — and walked to the door. There was no one standing there. However, the screw (alternate term for correctional officer), was doing a round on the flats.

I waited until he came up to my door and said, “Did you do a round a couple minutes ago?”

He looked at me like I was a daft and said, “Why would I do two rounds at 2am?”

Good question.

“Did another cop do a round?” I asked.

He scratched his head, “Nope, just me.”

“Huh,” I said, “Sorry, thought I heard somethin’.”

“No problem Nipp.”

Cops love to call me Nipp, Nipps, Nipples. You’d think they invented it. Off he went. I was curious about what I’d heard, but not enough to stay awake. I went to bed. The next morning I asked both my neighbors if they’d heard anything.

“Nope.”

Hmm, head scratcher.

The next night the same thing happened again, but this time I was almost anticipating it. I leapt out of bed and ran to the door. There was nothing there, absolutely nothing. The unit was entirely still and I didn’t see a light on in any cell visible from mine. However, one of my neighbors was awake. When I questioned him the next day he swore he’d heard footsteps the night before.

He even said, “The only reason I noticed was because the boots were loud.”

This gave my some encouragement that I wasn’t imagining this, or hearing some weird metallic echo in my cell. Prison’s a strange place. The buildings we live in are fabricated entirely from concrete and steel. At times these buildings almost seem alive they emit so much background noise. You see, in my mind I was still searching for some kind of rational explanation for all this. Don’t we always search out a leaky pipe or faucet when we hear something funny a home? If we see a moving shadow isn’t there always a handy excuse that the sun’s playing tricks on us? It’s human nature to justify mysterious occurrences and unexplainable happenings. We validate why a glass of water slides off a table, or a ball rolls across a floor, subconsciously. Better to deconstruct events and rationalize than promote something extraordinary. That doesn’t make us correct in our reasoning, but it reassures us that everything’s normal. How different the world would appear if we were able to prove beyond a doubt that a parallel dimension existed that sometimes overlapped with our own. Cue the spooky music and the rattling chains.

A few nights later, I lost in another book until almost 3am. I always tried to go to bed by three in the morning. Counts at 7:20am and chow’s at 8, as long as I’m in bed by three I’m guaranteed a few hours sleep.

By the time I prepped for bed and shut the light out it had to be almost 3am on the dot. It was particularly cold and windy outside. The wind was battering the window and ice sounded like fingernails tapping the glass. With the howling wind and ice I was finding it difficult to fall asleep. I’m not sure how much time had passed before I heard the footsteps, but I remember becoming fully alert. The cell grew very cold. If the feel temp. in the cell was forty degrees the temp. dropped another twenty degrees in 30 seconds. I could see my breath coming out in plumes of white moisture. The , “thump, thump, thump,” sound was growing louder. I wanted to jump out of bed and run to the cell door window, but I didn’t.

Fear washed over me. I’d curled up that night facing the wall with the cell door at my back. My mind kept giving me orders, “roll over, get up, go look out the window,” but the cell was freezing cold and I was scared. My body refused to respond to the angelic voice of subconscious reasoning. As the footsteps grew closer, and louder, the cell became colder. It looked like ice was forming on the wall where I was breathing. “Thump, thump, thump,” the hobnail boots seemed close & loud, and then they stopped. Whoever this was they were standing right in front of my door. I could hear someone breathing. It sounded like a man, an angry man, breathing loudly. I was officially freaked out. Someone was standing at my door taking deep, aggressive breaths. Then I heard three or four loud, distinctive footsteps. Someone had walked inside my cell! The sound of the hobnail boots echoed through the enclosed space. I was lying there still but inside I was freaking out. The rational part of my brain kept saying, “A screw (correction’s officer) just walked into your cell.” But, the nagging little doubter on my shoulder kept asking, “Did your cell door even open? How could a screw walk into your cell without your cell door opening?”. I wanted to curse out the little nagger and tell him to shut up!

But now someone was standing over my bunk. I pictured them all huge and angry staring down at my prone figure, breathing loudly. I heard these ragged gasps and smelled something foul in the air. My body was rigid as I tensed my muscles preparing to fight. Although I was scared out of my wits, I kept thinking, “You’re gonna’ have to fight him, assuming it’s a him.” lt was time to fight this huge person looming over me, bearing down on my person in a menacing way. I was at a major disadvantage. I needed to be fast and powerful. This person sounded large and angry. I curled my fists into balls and decided the time had come to act. I rolled over as fast as I could and sprung from the bed expecting to make contact with another person. I took a wild swing with my left hand fully expecting to connect. But instead of feeling my fist impact whatever had been standing there, I swung through the air. Waves of anger that had been washing over me moments before continued to convince me that there was a real threat in my cell. I took another swing, this time I threw a hook with my right. Once again my fist floated through the air. And, that’s when I realized, l there was nothing there. I was standing alone, in the dark, with the blankets on the floor gathered around my ankles. I crossed the cell and turned on the lights. I was violently shaking. After a quick glance under my bunk I cleared the corners and sat down on my bunk. I felt myself relax fractionally. “What just happened?” I kept asking this question to myself over and over. With my mind racing a thousand miles an hour I knew there was no chance of finding sleep. I made a coffee, cracked my book and settled in for a long night.

A few years later I was telling this tale to my buddy Chris at MCI-Norfolk and he started laughing. I asked him what was so funny and he told me I’d had a visit from the Workman of Walpole. The Workmam of Walpole is notorious for showing up late at night and waking up sleeping inmates.

Chris asked me, “Did he come right up to your bed breathing really loudly?”

“Yup.”

“That’s the guy then. He’s been haunting prisoner’s at Walpole since the 70’s. Some people think it’s the ghost of an old Irish guy named Finney who did odd jobs around the prison. He was murdered by an inmate he woke up late at night. I guess Finney was drunk and decided to fix the guys sink at three o’clock in the morning. That’s why he always shows up at the same time, 3am.”

When he said that it was like I’d swallowed a loaf of chew-badda bread. I couldn’t breathe. I hadn’t told anyone I’d been visited at 3am. That confirmed it for me, it wasn’t my imagination. I’d been visited by Old Finney. Funny thing was, my sink was broken! If I’d have known he was there to fix my sink I would’ve gotten the hell out of the way.

I’d really like to hear from you. You can sign up to send me email at msaccess.com (Massachusetts Department of Corrections email correspondence website) or email me at: brian.knippers@gmail.com. Unfortunately won’t be able to respond to the gmail email for 10 to 12 years with a lot of earned good-time.

Or, please write me a letter and share your thoughts on, “Workman of Walpole,” or, any of the other, “garr-bajj,” I put out there. Thanks for reading my stuff.

That dude,

Brian Knippers
Commitment #W-95692
Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center
P.O. Box 8000
Shirley, MA 01464