This building I am in was built with rows of big three-foot-by-three-foot windows just below the ceiling to let light and air in. They are crumbling and rusty, but well made. They sort of feel like a tribute to a time gone by, when craftsmanship and quality was a point of pride for whoever manufactured them.
They sort of remind me of windows I saw in an old-timey train station when I was a boy. Or perhaps some trendy repurposed windows you might find in a pricy Brooklyn loft that used to be a factory once upon a time.
But what makes these windows so creepy is that they have been completely bricked over and sealed up from the outside. They look like some kind of surreal Twilight Zone art exhibit.
About three inches on the other side of the pretty glass your gaze is abruptly stopped by red bricks and mortar, completely sealing out the light. It’s as if the bricks stand guard against your hopes; saying “there is nothing to see out there in the world you came from — not for you anyway! Forget it ever existed.”
The bricks are kind of sloppily laid. The mortar lines are not straight or level. The margins are uneven, and the excess mortar has blopped out and hardened in permanently unfinished shapes — not unlike the hardened and permanently unfinished lives of the men sealed in here.
The bricks have the same look as the twisted and tortured buildings in an animated Tim Burton horror scene. Like maybe some creepy giant spider packed these brick in there to seal out the air, or seal in his prey.
This building is the old abandoned death row. How much more spooky and evil can it get? And what purpose does it even serve to seal up the windows on this place, like the entrance (or exit) of a tomb?