[Fiction] The Warden Observes

Read the third-place entry for our week of September 28 contest, Secret in the Pages.

The Warden Observes
By Raymond Brunell

I have kept execution logs for seventeen years—time of death, final words, body temperature decline—alphabetized on Tuesdays and cross-referenced on Thursdays. Clockwork precision.

My daughter says I remember the logs better than her birthday. I missed it last week—April 9th. She’d wanted to show me her college acceptance. The same date as Inmate Dalmar Osric’s scheduled execution.

Osric requested his manuscript three weeks before: The Distances Between Breath. I inspected every page. His cramped handwriting documented twenty-seven murders. I approved it.

Officer Kevesh found his name on page 47. Margin notes describing gambling debts at casinos he visited two years after Osric’s arrest. When I asked, Kevesh had no memory—until he checked his statements and went pale.

I checked my log: April 9th, written in black ink; my pressure was tearing the paper.

Next morning: April 10th. Same handwriting. I remember writing April 9th. The page remembers April 10th. I remember writing April 9th. The ink remembers April 10th.

The manuscript multiplied: 47 pages became 316. Page 198 described my daughter’s diagnosis—yesterday’s letter, the one she asked me to read with her last week.

I watched page 198 for six hours. Nothing changed. I looked away to check the date—when I returned, the page had doubled. New text describes tonight’s conversation about her forgotten birthday.

The manuscript only altered what I wasn’t observing.

April 9th became the 10th, 11th, and 12th. I stopped sleeping. Continuous surveillance, fluorescent light burning my retinas, pages blurring. Nothing shifted while I watched.

On April 15th, I found Chapter 29: The Warden’s Execution. My walk. My final words. The date rewrote itself whenever I glanced away: tomorrow, always tomorrow.

I locked it in the safe and drove to the incinerator. The manuscript sat on my passenger seat. The dashcam showed me retrieving it, though I remember only driving. The manuscript returns to whoever last signed an execution in its presence. I signed when I approved it.

Video archives showed me attending Osric’s execution on April 9th. I watched myself sign—but I remember postponing it. When I looked away to compare signatures, the timestamp shifted to April 10th.

Records rewrite. Memories remain, but they contradict what everyone else believes happened.

I compared signatures across 291 records. The oldest were mine. After taking notes, I rechecked year one. Those signatures had become Osric’s handwriting.

Observation triggered the transformation.

My daughter called. She asked if I remembered my promise—to read the diagnosis together, that her birthday would be different this year. I remember only documentation, verification, and watching pages multiply.

Security footage shows Osric walking free on April 9th. My log shows my execution today. No one questions this.

I forced myself not to look away. The text stayed stable—until my eyes burned, and I blinked.

Right then—the warden observes the book. The book observes the warden. Neither can look away.

I wrote those words. I remember writing them. The page says otherwise.

The chamber door is opening.

About Raymond Brunell

Raymond Brunell writes gothic horror exploring psychological deterioration through contemporary perspectives. His work has appeared in Bluebirds Scribe, Manic Author, and Skeleton Flowers Press, with forthcoming publications in Literary Garage, Moss Puppy Magazine, TrashLight Press, and others. Published work available at www.unbound-atlas.com.

This piece piece was written in response to the prompt Secret in the Pages.