The Silent Watch

My dad worked as a corrections officer at a remote, rural prison. His job was routine — driving the perimeter of the vast property, checking for signs of escapees, and inspecting old, unused buildings. It was a monotonous assignment, often stretching through long, lonely nights. He thought he had seen everything — until one unforgettable shift.

One moonless night, he parked his patrol truck on a hill overlooking the sprawling prison grounds. With the radio crackling faintly in the background, he settled in, flipping through a worn magazine to pass the time. Then, he felt it — a deep, rhythmic thumping in his chest, like the pounding bass of a distant drumbeat.

Startled, he killed the engine and strained to listen. The air was unnervingly still, the prison lights flickering faintly in the distance. The thumping intensified, vibrating through the truck as though the earth itself was beating like a colossal heart.

He instinctively checked his rearview mirror — and froze. A figure stood just behind the truck, its outline faint in the dim light. Grabbing his pistol, he jumped out, heart pounding, expecting an escaped inmate. But what he saw left him breathless.

Emerging from the darkness was a procession of Native American warriors, walking in solemn silence. They moved directly through the truck — through his seat — their faces stoic yet marked with sorrow. Some bore brutal injuries: arrow wounds, torn clothing, ghostly bloodstains shimmering faintly under the dim stars. Their eyes stared ahead, locked in a grim, eternal march.

He was paralyzed, unable to speak or move. The figures advanced steadily, vanishing one by one at the exact spot where he had been sitting moments before. The cold night air seemed to hum with ancient energy, electric and heavy.

As the last figure disappeared into the dark, the crushing silence returned. Trembling, he grabbed his walkie and radioed the other perimeter guard, desperate for an explanation.

“Hey...you there? Something...just happened.”

A long, static-filled pause. Then the other guard’s strained voice came through, clipped and cold:

“...Don’t. Talk. About. It.”

Later, my dad learned that his colleague had seen the ghostly march before but dismissed it as exhaustion-induced hallucinations. He didn’t believe in ghosts — or didn’t want to.

But my dad knew better. He never drove that stretch of the perimeter again without feeling that silent, heavy drumbeat still echoing in his chest...and the gaze of unseen eyes watching from the darkness.